The Things We Don't Do

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MY NAME IS MARCOS. I always wanted to be Cristóbal. I don’t mean I wanted to be called Cristóbal. Cristóbal is my friend; I was going to say my best friend, but I have to confess he is the only one.

Gabriela is my wife. She loves me a lot and sleeps with Cristóbal.

He is intelligent, self-assured, an agile dancer. He also rides. Is proficient at Latin grammar. Cooks for women. Then eats them for lunch. I would say that Gabriela is his favourite dish.

Some uninformed person might think my wife is betraying me: nothing could be further from the truth. I have always wanted to be Cristóbal, but I do not simply stand there watching. I practise not being Marcos. I take dancing lessons and pore over my student textbooks. I am well aware my wife adores me. So much so that the poor thing sleeps with him, with the man I wish to be. Nestling against Cristóbal’s muscular chest, my Gabriela is anxiously awaiting me, arms open wide.

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