Listen, aren't you going a little too hard lately? I don't feel like taking on certain responsibilities with the son of family friends.
Everything is under control, don't worry.
Yes. And tomorrow comes Santa Claus.
She leans over me.
Which is your favourite reindeer?
The one with the red nose.
She gently bites my upper lip.
And what is its name?
I find it difficult to respond with his tongue stuck in my mouth. I am doubly uneasy because in such cases I am seized by fears of various kinds, my breath perhaps a little heavy, my eyes going cross-eyed from being too close, the ridiculous attempt to articulate a response while my tongue is busy doing something else.
Rudolph, I bubble.
She bursts out laughing.
You're a comic book guy. I bet you still read Mickey Mouse.
Yes, sometimes.
Normal. After all, Disney is also one of us.
How so.
You are such a child. Or a little girl? Now let's see.
She slips a hand between my thighs. She puts on Inhuman by Sonic Youth, a ramshackle punk that I love, and we start again.
I try my best this time too, I don't save my strength. It's five o'clock when we stop, it's been over an hour and I'm satisfied with how it went; I'm resting by her side without thinking about anything, while the stereo plays Street spirit; hanging out with Gherti, if nothing else, I'm discovering great music. Yesterday she took my breath away: she gave me a bootleg of Old Age in an acoustic version, revealing to me in absolute preview that it is a song written by Kurt. I was incredulous. 
It's a nice piece, but I'm not aware that he composed it. Are you sure about what you're saying?
She responded by hitting the ball back, as she often does:
The tape was recorded in '91.
Impossible, it came out in '93! 
Listen to it and you will understand.
When I turned on the stereo, the shock knocked me off my feet: it was just his unmistakable voice, his extraordinary heart-rending, hypnotic voice; he was singing that song in the privacy of his own home, accompanying himself with his guitar, pausing, testing the strings, trying out a couple of chords and then resuming playing. He was composing it. I was privileged to witness the creative process of a song that everyone attributed to others, one of the many injustices committed against that bright and fragile creature.
I wondered how Gherti had managed to get hold of that incredible rarity: I was trembling with emotion and my heart was in my throat. She looked at me with folded arms, observing from her superiority my childish reaction. 
Tomorrow I'll see if I can get Do-Re-Mi and the cover of And I Love Her.
What? Did he also do a Beatles cover?
Oui, mon enfant.
I thought that maybe even demons, in their own strange way, know how to love. 
I, was, wrong...
There is a ringing at the door. She leans on one elbow, stares at me, sticks my index finger in her mouth and sucks it thoughtfully for a few moments. 
It's Carlos. What do you say, you want to do it again with him? I've got a bit of an itch left.
I can't answer her. I'm too busy getting rid of the ceiling rubble that suddenly collapsed on me.
She lies on top of me, smiles and kisses my eyelids. I keep my eyes closed and bite my lips raw. I am struggling not to cry and she knows I won't succeed. She brings her hand between my legs:
Poor little sparrow, feel how cold and sad it is.
I turn my head to the side. She straightens my face and rests her open lips on mine. I clench my teeth so as not to let go, whirling in a whirlwind of sharp splinters, realising that at this moment sex would totally unhinge me; my diaphragm contracts, she plunges her fingers into my tears and I hear her sighing, twitching, moaning, my suffering bringing her intense pleasure. It is another of her games.
I don't know how much time has passed when I barely emerge from the shipwreck. I open my eyes, sit up exhausted with my head spinning; I look around: she is not there.
She enters the room after a few minutes with a glass of blood orange juice. She sits on the bed next to me and hands me the glass. I drink greedily. I feel like I have a fever.
I'm sorry, I tell her, I behaved like a child.
Never mind, she says indulgently. You are right. 
Her words comfort me, her tone of voice reassures me: evidently she has understood. I wish she would pass her hand over my warm forehead as mothers do when their children are sick in bed; instead she smiles and says:
It is only a matter of not letting you meet.
I remain dumbfounded for a moment:
Meet who?
You and Carlos.
She hands me my shirt and jeans.
If you don't want to see him, no problem: I'll let him in, after you've gone. Come on, get dressed, he's been waiting in the anteroom for half an hour.