The Black Minutes

9

Cabrera spent the rest of the afternoon doing paperwork. He wrote a report on his investigations and left it on the chief’s desk. At eight sharp, he said to himself: Another day, another dollar, and went home to relax. He had a date with his wife, and he didn’t want to stand her up.
Their relationship had deteriorated in the last few months. Since December, she had been living in one apartment and he in another, but they still slept together most nights. Their last fight was over the remote control. His wife complained they never talked anymore, that he was always quiet, that he only wanted to make love and then watch TV. Cabrera denied this and then made love to her. Afterward, he turned the TV on—he couldn’t help it; it was a reflex—but she started screaming, and he ended up sleeping in the living room. He can’t remember when that happened, but without a doubt she does; she has a record of all their arguments. Unlike her, Ramón was a pacifist and forgave her whatever she did.
That night he went to his wife’s apartment, thinking he was going to keep himself in check. He found her in a suspiciously good mood: I’m glad you’re here; I was waiting for you. She sat him down on the sofa in the living room, and his hand almost cramped up when he couldn’t find the remote.
Where’s the remote? Hidden, she said, it’s killing our relationship. Gimme a break—he lifted up the cushions—give me the remote; if you don’t give it to me, friggin’ Mariana, there’s going to be trouble; you know I’m a pacifist, but if you’re looking for trouble, you’re gonna get some.
I’ll give it to you, she promised, but before that I want to give you a massage.
A massage? Why?
A massage, come to bed.
Ah . . . bed; he liked that word. It’s a double feature: bed and TV?
You’re a macho pig, shut up and come to bed, take off your boots and lie on your back. Whatever you want, just don’t tie me up, I can’t stand being tied up.
Don’t you worry.
She showed him a small bottle of oil that smelled really, really good.
What’s this?
Aromatherapy, you’ll love it. With just a sniff, El Macetón felt relaxed, and a silly grin lit up his face. He went to the bed and lay down on his back.
Naked, his wife demanded. El Macetón protested. And you? Why don’t you take off your clothes? It took a while to convince her, but finally she removed her blouse, her skirt, and then her bra. They were listening to some down-tempo soul music, and the massage began. First chance he got, El Macetón tried to grab her breasts and she slapped his hand: You just want to make love! Treat me like a lady, you miserable pig! She massaged his neck, his arms, and his shoulders and he let her do whatever she wanted; obedience was the shortest way to the remote. But the massage turned out to be really, really nice, and El Macetón ended up getting used to her hands pushing into his flesh and he smiled more and more.
Suddenly, the movement stopped and El Macetón looked at her, intrigued: What’s up? She rubbed some oil onto her neck and shoulders. She tilted the bottle a little and a drop fell between her breasts, toward her belly. That’s not how a lady should act, El Macetón chided her.
Do you think this is wrong?
I do, but I can manage, we pacifists are very tolerant.
She let a second drop fall in the same place. What’s up? The oil’s going to run out. Weren’t you going to use it on me? Hold on, she said, and let a third drop fall on her right breast; El Macetón watched it trickle down. The drop made its way slowly but didn’t slide off her breast.
Don’t you need some help? If you want an assistant, I can lend you a hand.
Quiet, she ordered him, or I’ll get dressed and leave. Then she let another drop fall on her left breast. She looked him in the eyes, smiling....
A little while later, Cabrera got the nerve to say, That’s the best demo I’ve ever seen, I want a box of that product.
You liked it?
Well, yeah, I want to give it to the social service girls.
You shameless pig, she chided, you macho pig.
In the end, it was a quiet evening. It helped him to do the right thing.