It lasted only seconds. The car slowed down. The driver lowered the window and, pointing to the back of the car, asked you to get inside. You saw a nude woman in the back, her eyes closed, head leaning on the window, her arm covering her breasts. You asked if she was all right, but he didn't answer. He drove faster and the car disappeared.

You never told anyone about it. You regretted it, but you forgot it. It was only years later, when your wife, looking at you with her usual sadness and disappointment, dropped you off at another clinic that you thought of that woman's body—radiant, white, bruised. You turned towards the back seat and felt suddenly empty, as if telling someone an important secret about yourself, which turns out to be worthless.