I am not afraid to admit now that I was friends with Octavio Paz.  My name is Antonio, I am dead now, and we were more than friends – I was his confidant, his student, his admirer.  Yes, I wanted to be his lover, but it never happened, because Paz would not completely embrace the love that soaked his poetry.  Paz had limits; I have none.

When I died I was with him.  I remember the look on his face as I convulsed, shook, and expired.  If I am clinical it is because I no longer associate “me” with the body that I once possessed.  I did, and perhaps, I think, I still should, but I cannot bring myself to care for any of those physical matters.  I am dead, that is enough.

And yet I remember Octavio.

Like I said, he watched me die.  And then do you know what he did?  He left my body there, he poured himself a glass of water and downed it in a single gulp, and then he called a friend and discussed a short story by Borges, and then they talked about Cortazar’s latest novel, which he hated.  It was odd.  He didn’t mention anything about me, and I watched (how?  How did I watch?  How am I here now?  Where is “here”?  Who am I telling this story to?) as he went about an ordinary day doing ordinary things.  He made coffee.  He chatted with his wife.  He watched television while eating lunch.

And me?  I don’t know.  I loved him.  My body lay there, dead and neglected.  I loved him.  Did he even know I was there?

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The above piece of writing comprises part of my fragments project, some of which are available on this website.  I intend to add new fragments piecemeal, not in any particular order, and as the occasion take me.