“There,” he suddenly stops and backs away. He has no fantasy, no protocol to guide him at the end.
She always thinks of s*x at this point, but looking back at Armando’s face, she sees that he’s not aroused.
“I did what I had to do,” he says; then he turns around, moving away from her onto the porch, where he raises orchids and violets and other exotic flowering plants with strange names and vivid colors. This is his passion when he’s not consumed by the theories of Karl Marx.
Lana pushes herself away from the table, in silence, standing in the middle of the dining room unsure what to do. She finally walks to the door of the hothouse and waits for Armando to say something. But uncomfortable with what has just happened, he fails to acknowledge she’s there.
“You want me to quit, don’t
