Oh, God, we talked about everything. Anything that could be discussed, we covered it. Right after sex, that is. We had priorities...

He sat wrapped in a plain white sheet from my linen closet, making sure not to touch me. He never did unless we were fornicating. "When we first met, I knew right away that she was the one," he began. I listened with rapt attention, like a child to Father Christmas. He was 48 to my 24, so with the age difference, he may as well have been Father Christmas.

"She was so beautiful," he continued, with his eyes fixated on some point located on the ceiling. He always had trouble looking at me when he talked about her. "She had these green eyes that were like...like grass. Really bright, healthy grass. Well, anyways, she was way too shy to come over and talk to me, and honestly, so was I. But I figured, if I don't do it now, I'll always regret it. We were married exactly one year and 6 months later. It was and still is the greatest moment in my life. It probably always will be." He trailed off, his smile fading.

I cleared my throat. "Will you tell me about her? What was she like?" I asked, sounding as eager as I was. I loved hearing stories about their love. It was so pure and real, something I would probably never experience.

"Oh, perfect," he said with no hesitation. "She was patient and kind to strangers...she was always there for me. Like, there was this once, in 1984, I remember it as clear as day. I was going for an interview at the University of Texas, for a professorship. And I was turned away instantly because I was Argentinian."

He paused for a moment, relishing the memory, truly reliving it. "Oh, God, I was so angry...anyways, she listened to me rant for hours on end about racism and discrimination. I don't think I've ever been quite so angry in my entire life as I was then. She just sat through it...and when I was spent, she picked up the pieces. She was the one who got me the interview at this University, you know. And I've been here ever since. Even since-" he stopped suddenly. "Well, you know."

The way he used to talk about her, I thought she was dead. About a couple of months into our student-teacher affair, I found out that she was quite alive, and they were still married. It turns out she'd been in and out of a series of mental institutions for years. She was simply out of her mind, and she couldn't even remember him.

Oddly enough, that's when I fell in love with him. When I learned of his tragedy. When I found the reason he wouldn't look at me when we made love, or how he wouldn't even touch me afterwards. He didn't love me, not one bit. But I loved - love - him.

I looked over at him, still wrapped in the sheet and his own thoughts. I got up from the bed, wishing I could make it better. Make her better. I would do anything for him. I was hopelessly devoted to a lost cause.

"Are you hungry?" I asked listlessly, feeling that food was a poor substitute for the love of his life. But what else was there I could do? I couldn't restore her mind...but, God, I would if I could.

-Fin-