I sensed it. Something was not going to work. I gave it a chance. He was handsome, nice solid body for a sixty year old man, impeccable: speech, clothes, hair and manners. “Not my type”, I thought, but his vast knowledge of Latin American literature and art -quite rare among Americans who, for the most part, know very little beyond their specializations- kept me interested in getting to know him. I accepted his invitation to have dinner in his apartment in the East Side of Manhattan. The place looked like there was no space for a microbe to hang around: impeccable. His constant wiping of the coffee table drove me to lose appetite, interest in talking to him about Frida Kahlo, and made me feel that I could not be touched by a body that was so environmentally challenged.
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