As his fiancee returned from his funeral, Arturo held her hand. She had no idea he was there, but he could feel her. Maybe she looked around for him. Maybe she sensed him.
He couldn’t tell what she was feeling. Some things don’t change.
As she turned on daytime television, he watched her. He’d never been able to look so long without her swatting him away. “It’s not cancer. I’m pregnant, and it’s your brother’s!” He was able to take in the whole of her body, which looked good in black. “Impossible! My brother’s been dead for three years!”
He put a hand on her shoulder, and she didn’t seem to notice. He tried massaging her, and before long, she was starting to relax. He worked his way down, moving more gently than he could have with his old awkward hands. He touched her breast. It was the first time she’d allowed him to touch her, maybe the first time she’d been touched. “He’s not my brother; he’s my father!”
Pressing deeper, he felt his hand on his chest. He felt vaguely afraid, and somehow more fascinated by the soaps. Distraction was important. How long before he should start dating again? At least he hadn’t been too in love, he heard himself think, and a wave of guilt afterward.
He couldn’t tell what he was feeling.
Since he was alone in the house, he had no need to quantify. Instead, he quietly learned the parts of his vagina over his clothes and prepared to face oblivion.