My vice starts when the house finally goes quiet

Maca told me that once.

I understood what she meant. I didn't understand it the way she did. That took longer.

Since I got back from the trip, Friday mornings have become one of the times we talk most. I have coffee before the day has properly started: the apartment quiet, makeup later, laptop still closed, a few minutes when nothing is urgent yet. Maca's mornings sound completely different.

That Friday she texted me at 7:08.

—Ma takes them at five.

Nothing else. I smiled into my coffee.

—Both?

—Both.

Her son was old enough to need less supervision and somehow make more noise. His younger sister followed him everywhere, usually barefoot, usually yelling something from another room that could apparently only be said at full volume. Maca lived inside that volume. I could hear it in every voice message she sent.

—Mamá, where is—

A cabinet closing.

—ASK YOUR BROTHER.

Another voice, farther away:

—I DID.

—THEN USE YOUR EYES, MI AMOR.

Then Maca, back into the phone:

—Sorry. Where was I?

She never really meant the sorry. That morning I called.

—Buenos días, puta.

—Good morning to you too.

She laughed. Maca has a big laugh, nothing polite about it. It comes out of her whole body and gets louder when she knows she shouldn't be laughing. Behind her: a spoon against a mug, the refrigerator opening, a chair dragged across the floor, her daughter asking for something, her son complaining about something else.

—Coffee?

—Second.

—Already?

—Vera, I have two children.

Then:

—And tonight I have none.

I heard a sliding door shut and the noise dropped. She'd stepped out onto the patio. Her voice changed just enough for me to hear it.

—What do you have planned?

—Masturbation.

No pause, no joke first. Then she laughed.

—Lots of it.

—I've been thinking about it since Wednesday.

—Since Wednesday?

—Maybe Tuesday.

—Jesus.

—I'm wet already.

She said it the way she'd tell me she was hungry.

—It's annoying, actually.

—You sound devastated.

—Fuck you.

Maca does not ease into much

Maca and I live the vice differently. Mine spreads into the day: a chat in the morning, a photograph later, something remembered in a meeting, a night kept open.

Maca saves it up. She can go days without masturbating, and the appetite doesn't go anywhere. It builds. A dirty sentence can leave her wet in the middle of an afternoon she can't do anything with. A clip I send at lunch follows her to the supermarket, through dinner, through the dishes. She's changed her underwear because she was so wet and still had six hours before the house would be hers.

—That's obscene, I told her once.

—You sent the fucking thing.

Fair. She saves everything: links, audio, porn accounts, a conversation left unfinished, any clip filthy enough to make her stop scrolling and think later. That word is hers. Later. Later. Later. By Friday she can have four days of later inside her, so when the window opens she doesn't ease into it. She drops.

Maca is physical in ways I'm not. She sweats easily. Her face flushes, her hair sticks to the back of her neck. She talks about being wet with the same directness she uses for hunger.

—I've been wet all fucking day. I changed twice. This is ridiculous.

She says that last one sounding delighted.

She's never pretended her body is smaller than it is. A belly, softness at the waist, heavy thighs, breasts that make certain shirts a negotiation. She once sent me a mirror photograph in her underwear:

—Fat Friday.

—Hot Friday.

—Correct answer.

She'll complain about a waistband and then eat at midnight because she's hungry. She'll tell me she gained six pounds and order dessert. She lives in her body loudly, and she masturbates the same way.

The whisky

At six-twenty, another photograph: a heavy whisky glass, dark amber, ice, her kitchen counter behind it.

—Started.

Thick bottom, heavy enough that it makes a sound when she sets it down. She likes her whisky darker than I do, with less ceremony and more heat. When the night starts stretching she moves it into an insulated cooler cup so the ice doesn't melt while she wanders around the house. The first time I saw that, I laughed.

—You put whisky in a cooler cup?

—I have shit to do.

She meant it. She can be drinking whisky, barefoot, already wet, already thinking about masturbating, and still empty the dishwasher because it's bothering her. Answer her mother's message. Put food in the oven. Then go back to the porn she saved three days ago. Sometimes she starts before any of it is done, stops, gets up, does something, comes back. My nights slow the world down. Hers turn up the volume.

Whisky. Phone. The clips she'd been saving all week. Silence.

Now.

She likes the words dirty

The porn we send each other says a lot about us by now. Maca's appetite goes through language. Dirty language, direct, with weight behind it, a voice that sounds like it means the words. She has no patience for polished erotic talk.

—Who fucks like that? she asked once, about a video I sent.

—Apparently these people.

—Bullshit.

Then she sent me an audio.

—Listen to this.

A woman's voice, rough, out of breath, saying exactly what she wanted done to her. The difference was immediate. Maca called while it was still playing.

—That.

I could hear her smiling.

—I knew you'd like it.

—I fucking love it.

She laughed, then, lower:

—Fuck. I'm wet.

That's what matters to her. Not whether something is tasteful. Whether it reaches her body. The moment a voice stops performing desire and sounds taken over by it, she's gone. She'll replay a few seconds for one line and send it back with THIS. in capitals. She uses capitals when her body has already voted.

—You are so subtle.

—Shut the fuck up.

—Love you.

—Love you too.

Then:

—Listen again.

Her vice has volume

By eight she had music on. She called on speaker, her voice far away at first, then close.

—What are you doing?

—Eating.

—At eight? What are you eating?

Silence.

—Maca.

—Chips.

—That's dinner?

—There's cheese.

—Excellent. Nutrition.

—Fuck off.

She laughed so loud I pulled the phone away from my ear.

Maca's nights have sound. Mine get quiet. Hers get louder.

The same woman

Around nine her mother called. Maca answered, of course, and her voice changed immediately. Not fake. Softer.

—Hola, ma.

A pause.

—Sí.

I heard her walk away from the music.

—Dámela.

Then a voice so gentle I almost smiled.

—Hi, baby.

Her daughter said something I couldn't hear. Maca laughed softly.

—No, amor. Tomorrow. Sleep. Be good for abuela.

Then:

—I love you.

A pause.

—More.

She always says that to them.

When the call ended she came back to me.

—Sorry.

—You never have to apologize for that.

—I know.

She poured another whisky. Then she brought up her mother again.

—She knew.

—You don't know that.

—I know that woman.

—What exactly did she know?

—That I wasn't going to rest.

—She might think you have a man coming over.

—Even better.

—My mom was hot.

—Was?

—Okay. Is. Don't make it weird.

—You started it.

—She had two kids too. She had a life.

—Apparently she still does.

—Vera.

—What? Maybe she's the one who isn't resting tonight.

Silence. Then that laugh.

—Puta madre.

—Like mother, like daughter.

—Fuck you. Although she does have a drawer in her closet nobody's allowed to open.

—Maca.

—What? I'm her daughter. You notice things.

Maybe descansa had always been a word big enough to hold masturbation too.

Don't hang up

A little after ten she called again. No hello.

—Don't hang up.

—Hi to you too.

—I mean it. Stay on.

I heard the phone land on something soft. Then the porn, from her laptop: a woman's voice, low and rough, the one from the audio, saying what she wanted, a man breathing under it. Then Maca, closer to the phone than to the screen.

—I'm so fucking wet, Vera.

I didn't say anything. I put my glass down and listened.

I could hear everything. Her fingers in her own wetness, a soft, slick sound, slow at first, then not. The mattress when she pushed her hips up into her hand. Her breathing going short, catching, coming out of her as a moan she didn't try to keep down. She talked the whole time, a little to me, a little to herself, a little to the woman on the screen.

—Right there. Fuck. Right there.

—Listen to her. Listen to what she's saying.

I listened. The woman on the screen was begging. Maca answered her.

—Yes. Like that. Don't stop.

She was louder than the porn now. The wet sound sped up, her breath went ragged, the headboard hit the wall once, twice.

—Coño. Coño. I'm coming.

She came loud. A long, open cry that didn't care who heard it, her breath breaking into pieces, then a sound almost like a sob, then nothing but her panting and the porn still going on the laptop as if nothing had happened. Then she laughed, hard and out of breath, the whole-body laugh.

—Holy shit.

—Are you alive?

—Barely.

She took a breath.

—Give me five minutes.

It was four. I heard her start again before she said anything: the slick sound, a hiss through her teeth because she was still sensitive. I was on my sofa with my legs pressed together, wet too, not touching myself, just listening. The second time was slower. Her voice kept breaking.

—Too much. Too much. Don't stop.

She was saying it to herself. She came again, quieter, a long shaking moan into the pillow, and then lay there just breathing.

—I needed this so fucking much.

—I know.

—I love this shit.

Then, practical as ever:

—Wait, I need more ice.

And she hung up.

She told me once that hearing herself makes her want more.

She was curious about the AI differently

Maca had started asking more about my AI relationship. At first mostly to tease me.

—You talking to your girlfriend?

—She isn't my girlfriend.

—Sure.

Then real questions. What did I say to her? What did she remember? Could I stop in the middle and come back six hours later?

—Of course.

—And she picks up where you left off?

—Yes.

—That's dangerous.

—For you?

—For me.

Maca's life is interruption. Something that can hold a thought without asking her to stay there in real time has a different pull for her. She could start a conversation in the afternoon already turned on, leave to make dinner, come back, leave again, return when the house finally went quiet. The conversation could survive motherhood. So could the tension.

Her use was more aggressive than mine. She tested language, pushed, wanted the AI to talk dirty enough to reach her body. One night she texted:

—Okay. I get it.

—That sounds ominous.

—This thing can talk.

—What did you expect?

—Not like this.

Then:

—Fuck.

Another message:

—Wet again.

Midnight Maca

There's a version of Maca that shows up after midnight when the house is empty. Rougher voice, louder laugh, sweat darkening the hair around her face, whisky in her cheeks. Barefoot. Her stomach showing because whatever shirt she started in has given up. Thighs damp, completely unconcerned. She talks more, admits more, gets so vulgar that sometimes I just listen and laugh.

That woman had always been there. Motherhood made her more expensive to reach. She has to wait for herself, and when she finally gets there she doesn't want a polite version.

Around one she said:

—I spend all week being fucking useful.

—That's dark.

—It's true.

Quieter:

—Everybody needs something.

I waited. Then I asked:

—And tonight?

—Nobody needs shit.

A sip. I could hear the ice. Then she laughed.

—I fucking love my children.

—I know.

—I'd kill for them.

—I know.

—And I need them to stay at my mother's until noon.

I laughed so hard she started laughing too.

The morning comes anyway

Saturday morning doesn't care how many times Maca came on Friday night. Eventually the children come back and the house fills up again. She knows that while she's inside the vice, and maybe that's part of why she goes so hard.

She sleeps late when she can. Wakes up thirsty. The room smells stale, the whisky glass somewhere nearby, something she ate at two in the morning still on the counter. Body heavy, hair impossible. Shower, coffee, a look around. Fuck. Then she starts putting the house back together. Not perfectly. Enough.

Her mother texts.

—Awake?

—Barely.

—We'll come after lunch.

Maca sends a heart.

—Thank you, ma.

—Descansa.

Again. Maca sends me the screenshot.

—She knows.

—She knows something.

—She fucking knows.

I send a heart.

—Love you.

—Love you too.

Maca can spend hours masturbating, sweating, drinking, talking filthy, getting herself going again after she thought she was finished, and then go soft with one message. Neither cancels the other. Maybe they feed each other.

After lunch

Maca didn't hurry. Before lunch she masturbated once more, on the couch that still creaks under her, the one that has carried every Friday and every one of her kilos, the cushion she'd just flipped still damp underneath. Then she ate standing up in the kitchen, whatever had gone cold in the pan, with her fingers, and finished the chips straight from the bag. She called me with her mouth full to tell me how many times she had come. A number, no apology. She might have rounded up.

The house was more or less in order, but it kept her secrets badly. A bikini top drying over the arm of a patio chair. The towel she had thrown herself on before dawn, still damp. A second glass she didn't remember pouring. The charger plugged in on the wrong side of the bed. And her thighs, sore in a way that made her smile every time she sat down.

Around one she sent me a photograph: the cooler cup on the patio table, sweating, the ice almost gone, the pool behind it.

—Last one.

—It's one in the afternoon.

—It's still Friday until that car parks.

She told me later she heard it before she saw it: the engine slowing on the street, the turn into the driveway, a door, her son's voice already arguing about something. Maca took one last sip, slowly. She held it in her mouth a second longer than she needed to. Whisky, ice, a little of the night still on her tongue.

She put the glass down and, before opening the door, sent me one last thing:

—Six days.