Sometimes I was the one who would talk on and on, telling stories, true stories, although they went barely skin-deep, about the sophisticated Mexico City life (a way of forgetting that we lived in Mexico) that I was getting to know back then, the parties, the drugs I took, the men I slept with, and other times he was the one who would talk, reading stories to me that he’d cut out of the paper that day (a new hobby, probably suggested by the therapists who were treating him, who knows), telling me what he’d had to eat, the people who’d come to visit, something his mother had said that he’d
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