I knew a Clara too. Like the Clara in Roberto Bolano’s short story. In some ways our Claras were similar, in some ways different. I won’t point these out; they would add nothing to my narrative except to invite more unflattering comparisons.
My Clara liked to talk after we made love. Her words were a soliloquy of fantastic and disturbing things. I imagined them as a window into her life—a life, she said, that floated on waves she couldn’t control. I had no way of knowing if anything she told me was true. I was happy she did most of the talking. Our s*x left me tired and catching my breath. Her breath was unaffected. Out of respect for me, I think, she never spoke about whether I gave her pleasure, whether she had orgasms. There was an immense disparity in our experiences in this area.
We
