When we finally emerge from the house, it is mid afternoon, and the sun is shining bright. Painfully so, for my eyes, which have grown completely accustomed to mere candle and firelight, and so I hide under a hat and big glasses. Curt meanwhile, has thrown on yesterday's wrinkled black trousers and shirt, and seems oblivious.

As we walk the few blocks to the square, we pass positively eye popping scenery; the remnants of beautiful ancient ruins, still magnificent and grand, a couple of historic mission churches, lovely narrow windy streets which dead end at the blue waters of the ocean, all absolutely incredible … but Curt sees none of it. He's looking downward as we walk, in full concentration over … something.

"Curt, what is it?"

He whips his head round, as if he's forgotten I'm here.

"What? Oh. Nothing. I'm just … thinking."

"You're missing some ungodly scenery." I point.

He stops and looks off absently, squinting. "Ya, nice", and immediately continues walking.

I catch up and take his hand.

"What is it? Is anything wrong?" He continues, walking briskly.

"Umm … I'm still … working it out."

I step in front of him. "Working what out?"

"Brian it's just," He sighs. "It's just beginning to all make sense to me." He pauses.

"What is?"

"What we talked about. The idea of waiting."

"Okay."

"I think it's a great idea. I think we oughta wait."

I smile. "I do too."

"But, like, a while, I mean, with like, nothing in between."

I'm not grasping it.

"I mean …" he becomes animated and resumes walking. "Brian, maybe we've been gorging ourselves too much. I mean I can't believe I'm saying this but it's all beginning to come together in my head."

"Gorging ourselves?"

He stops and looks at me.

"The sex. We've fucked what, 18 times in the last few days? Something like that?"

"Not exactly, but, so what?"

"Well I'm beginning to think maybe we should hold off. Stay away from it for a while. So it'll be special, like you said."

Me and my big fucking mouth. I clear my throat. "Okay, but, how long?"

"Til like maybe the last night."

I blurt. "The last night? Curt, that's 12 days away!"

He's blank faced. "I know. I can count."

My voice climbs an octave. "But not two hours ago you wanted to spend the entire day fucking !"

He looks around. "You wanna keep your voice down ?"

I shout-whisper. "I had to practically drag you out the bloody door, and even then you only agreed due to the threat of starvation, since we're completely out of food!"

He turns to resume walking and shouts-whispers back at me.

"I know all that! Why are you being such as asshole about this, Brian? It was your fucking idea, and I've fallen in love with it, that's all. It's perfect. A wedding night- you've had that; I never have."

I catch up with him and put a hand on his shoulder. "Curt, wait, will you slow down, please?" He stops. I sigh.

"I'm sorry. You're right, it was my idea, the waiting, and I meant it; it's a really lovely thought, and I still want to, I really do." I take his hand again and smile at him. "I just don't know that we need to wait all that long, do we? For it to be meaningful? I mean, also, is it really feasible? We're sleeping in the same bed."

He drops my hand and resumes walking again. "So I'll sleep on the couch."

I hurry up to him. "Curt, wait." He doesn't. "Will you quit walking away from me for a single bloody second?"

He stops, looking annoyed.

"It's a lovely, sweet idea, please hear me when I say that, okay? This is me here, remember? The person who loves you, the person who knows the whole history, right? Do you honestly think I'd want anything other than for it to be completely special and beautiful for you?"

His face opens. I've got him. "No."

"All I'm asking if that maybe we discuss it a bit, before you go and decide entirely on your own."

His face closes. I've lost him again.

"I don't know what there is to discuss. You brought it up, and I'm just agreeing with your idea. It's simple! We should abstain!"

That stupid bloody term! I hate it! It sets me off.

"Jesus! 'Abstain'- I cannot believe you're using that word! Here I am on vacation in the Mediterranean with Curt Wild, 'abstaining'! You sound like some primary school nun !"

We each begin shouting.

"Fine, then in 12 days, you'll be fucking a nun! Will that turn you on? Will it make you happy !"

"I'm hardly bloody waiting 12 days! There's no need first of all, and secondly, do you honestly think you'd last til then? YOU? You'd be lucky to last 12 minutes!"

"Don't fucking flatter yourself, Demon! And sure, go ahead and call me a fucking whore if it makes you feel better, but I have to say, I sure don't remember you complaining about my sex drive before. And by the way, try not to be so revealing in your choice of words: 'You'd', like this was obviously some remote, silly fucking idea to you. Why did you even bring this up to me if you weren't sincere about it? Because you felt bad for me! Do you have any idea how much that hurts?"

"You're allowing yourself to be hurt by being overly melodramatic and deliberately blowing this out of proportion! You know exactly what I meant!"

We've arrived at the edge of the outdoor market in the town's square on a positively gorgeous Saturday afternoon. The place is packed; vendors shout their wares, couples roam, old women mill about, squeezing vegetables and arguing as they barter. The air is filled with the beautiful, lyrical Spanish language.

Meanwhile, in the middle of this blissful scene, we're having a bloody nuclear meltdown. And over what? SEX !

He walks forward and shouts back to me over his shoulder.

"I'm getting us some fucking food! You do whatever the fuck you want! I could give a shit!"

I walk past him quickly, shouting. "I'll get the fucking vegetables and bread! You wouldn't know a vegetable if it slugged you in the face! You get the meat! Me- vegetables, you- meat, got it ?"

"Ya, and while you're at it, why don't you shove one of those oversized cucumbers up your ass? Or go fuck a couple of the vendor's brains out- since I know you can't possibly wait for sex. Oh but no, I've got it backwards- I'm the whore, here, right?"

"No! Of course not! You've never once had a dick forced up your ass, have you?"

An inner voice screams at me to IMMEDIATELY SHUT THE HELL UP, but I ignore it like an idiot, and rage on.

"NO! You're just suddenly the fucking little timid innocent virgin! Aren't you?"

In the next split second, the wind is knocked completely out of me, and I'm laying face up on the ground with a split lip. He's standing several feet back, red faced, yelling swears, kicking and struggling between the two men who have grabbed his arms. A number of people gawk, surveying the drama between the two crazy white men; it's exactly like a scene from a bad Western, complete with an old woman kneeling by me, dabbing at my lip with a hankie.

While I've never been in a fight before in my life, (and am now bloody well sure Curt's been in dozens), I immediately recognize the level to which I had this one coming, and how the damage I've now caused by opening my stupid mouth could very well be irreparable.

My head is pounding, and not from the blow. How … HOW? … HOW? could I have managed to belittle him in such a fantastically cruel and thoughtless way, with seeming references, however idiotically inadvertent on my part, not only to the rape, but then, perhaps worse, to his dreams of recovering from it? Am I mentally fucking ILL?

As he is held back by the two men, it suddenly hits me: Because of his time in the hospital as a child, he can't bear to be restrained. Great, just add this into the mix, now.

I scream twice, "Déjelo ir!" ("Let him go!"). I'm praying that he runs over and kicks the living shit out of me, but when they release him, he shoves the two men roughly aside, but then doesn't seem to know what to do. He seems to want to bolt, but instead he dives next to me.

His eyes are watered and pained. His voice is sad, and freaked.

"Are you okay?"

We immediately begin talking over each other.

"I'm so sorry–"

"–Brian, why on earth did you say those things?–"

–"It came out wrong, I didn't mean for it to sound–"

"–I'm sorry I hit you, but I can't really forgive you, you know."

I look at him.

"I understand."

"How could you be that cruel? I don't get it. Why?"

I sit up. The people around us have lost interest and wandered off.

"Curt, I swear to you, I swear on my mother's fucking grave, I in no way meant it how it sounded. I'm absolutely horrified. I was angry. I just blurted the first idiotic thing I could, without even realizing how it would sound. I'm so incredibly sorry, you have no idea."

He doesn't respond.

My eyes well up. "Please. You have to believe me, Curt."

His face is cold.

"No, I don't."

He stares blankly. His voice is calm.

"You know, I always thought it was me who couldn't let it go, who couldn't get past it- being raped, but I'm just realizing, it's actually you who can't. It seems to serve some twisted fucked up purpose for you, Brian. It took me a while to realize, but now I see it."

I'm crying. I grab for his hand but he won't take it.

"It's not true! This is all a horrible mistake! Curt, I love you. More than anyone in the world. I would never hurt you!"

He stands and looks down at me.

"There was someone else who used to say that exact same thing to me, that he loved, that he would never hurt me. My brother."

I stand quickly.

"I am not your brother!"

He leans towards me. "Maybe not, but then, who are you? I don't think I even know. But no matter, I don't really care anymore."

He points down the road and talks without emotion.

"I'm gonna go back to the house now Brian, and borrow some money from you so I can change my flight. I'm gonna try and leave right away, but if I can't, I'll fly out first thing in the morning. I'll wire the money back to you at some point, but after I'm gone, I don't ever wanna see you again, do you understand?"

He takes my hand to shake it.

"Thanks for the free trip to Spain," and walks off quickly.

I'm sobbing like an idiot in the middle of the square, watching him disappear, but somehow manage to stop myself from calling out his name. I wander over to the perimeter and plant myself down on a bench next to an old man with a pipe, where for the next 10 minutes, I cover my face in my hands and bawl.

Eventually I stand. I don't want to go back to the house but I have no choice. I slowly make my way to the sidewalk, still sobbing. On the way I run it all over in my head. This was literally just a stupid bloody misunderstanding! Why can he not see that? Why can he not believe me? To say I somehow got something out of the knowledge that he was raped? Me, who has tried so hard to help him with it? To have dared to compare me to his brother! It was just an argument! He can't leave! He can't end the whole bloody thing over something as stupid as this!

Eventually I'm at the door, but I don't want to open it, terrified he's gone.

Relax, arsehole, he couldn't have left quite yet. He's inside. He was calm and unemotional, you be the same. Nonchalant even. Think! Explain it! And make it good. This will be your last chance.

I wipe down my face, take a deep breath, and open the door.

I can hear him rifling around upstairs.

Suddenly it's all familiar: Curt, upstairs, packing, threatening to leave; me, panicked, sobbing, begging him not to.

Annoyed, I ascend the stairs.

He's got his battered suitcase on the bed, and is throwing in and/or rearranging his belongings.

Calm, unemotional, praying he doesn't notice that I'm shaking …

"Well, this is becoming a familiar sight."

He doesn't respond.

"But you're actually doing it this time."

No response

"You got your flight?"

Nothing.

"When are you leaving?"

"An hour", he blurts.

"Where are you flying to?"

He stops and looks at me

"Don't worry. I have no intention of following you. I know you've made up your mind."

He turns to transfer things from the bureau to his suitcase.

"I know we're through."

He's shoving a crumpled up pair of underwear into the end pocket

"You've made that call."

He shakes out a pair of pants loudly.

"Shut the fuck up."

I ignore him.

"It's such a bloody stupid waste."

He hisses.

"A waste of what, Brian? A waste of my time for the last week? Yes, totally."

"A waste of your heart."

He snaps. "Don't fucking even talk to me, with your complete lies and bullshit!"

I remain calm. "Why, are you gonna hit me again?"

"You deserved it."

"Yes, if I had meant it the way it sounded to the casual observer, then I did. But, you're hardly the casual observer."

"I'm not talking about this! Get the fuck outta here!"

"It's my house."

He sighs.

"Ya, and I'll be leaving it very soon. I can hardly fucking wait."

"And it's not bullshit, by the way, unless you consider that you're bullshitting yourself."

"I am NOT talking about this! What part of that do you not understand?"

"Fine, then we'll have a one-sided conversation. See how you like it."

"I won't be listening."

"That's a big change."

He snaps. "Brian, you wanna talk about my heart? I opened it up to you- wide! I emptied the contents, and trusted you with it. What the fuck was I thinking, right?"

"Exactly what I was thinking! Finally, FINALLY, here's a person I can love, I can completely open up to, for real, no games, no bullshit!, who loves me back- tenfold! Do you have any idea how rare that is?"

He turns to me.

"Listen to me, Brian: What you said to me bordered on sick and sadistic. It felt like molestation, like there was a part deep inside you that enjoyed toying with me or something. That sure as fuck isn't love. And if it is, I don't want any part of it. I've had enough twisted, unhealthy shit for one lifetime."

"Wait. Do I not deserve the benefit of the doubt here? Why would you imagine for a single second that I would toy with you, or gain some sort of morbid benefit from what happened to you? Am I not the one who's in fact been trying to help you through it, help you heal? Why turn on a dime, on me, Curt?"

He's looking at me, fidgeting absently with a shirt.

"I'm not perfect. I blurted something in anger, not even realizing how deeply it would hurt you. But no matter how many times I say it, you won't believe me when I tell you it meant nothing. I was fuming mad- so were you. We were insulting each other- general insults. I made stupid cracks. When I called you a virgin, I was being an arsehole, in that it was sarcasm about your general sexual history, that was all. It was not in any way a reference to what we'd discussed before we left the house, I didn't even think of that, but as soon as it came out of my mouth, it was too late. I realized immediately how it would sound. I'm horrified, absolutely crushed that I hurt you, even if it was inadvertent, even if I know with all my soul that it wasn't meant that way."

His face is unmoved. He looks down and grabs a pair of shoes to shove them into the ends. I can see that they have sand on the bottoms, from the beach.

"I don't care."

I'm totally deflated. It was my best argument.

Try not to let it sting, stay with your gut feeling. Speak calmly.

"Okay. I'm absolutely wasting my breath."

"You are," he whispers absently, as he shoves in a pair of rumpled, mismatched socks.

"Well since you're not listening, let me just say that I took particular offense at you comparing me to your brother, who was a monster. Secondly, the thing that immediately preceded this whole disaster today- the 12 day idea. My only crime there was that I didn't want to wait that long to make love to you. 12 days seemed like an eternity, does that not tell you something? We have so little time as it is, and I enjoy hoarding you and having you to myself, but just so you know, just for the record … I would have waited."

He looks at me with empty eyes. There can be no question- he's leaving.

I'm exhausted. I want to roll myself into a ball in the corner of the room, facing the wall. I turn away quickly and walk out of the room as the tears begin spilling, as my gut clenches and a wave of nausea hits me. This has been so ugly and painful. If nothing else, at least he will leave with the knowledge of that last sentiment, at least if we must split, it will be on that note.

I begin descending the stairs, having not a clue where I'm headed. My knees are weak. My hand is shaky on the railing. I'm crying quietly, from frustration, from the incredible sense of loss and sadness I feel, from the turmoil in my gut. And then suddenly I'm turning around, angry.

I bolt through the door. He's shutting the suitcase. He looks up. I stammer through the sobs.

"What you're doing is wrong. Worse than that, it's stupid. It's needless. You're robbing yourself and you're robbing me, simply because you're afraid. I love you, Curt, but right now I can't imagine why that is. You accused me of cruelty. What you're doing right now is worse. I won't be able to forgive you."

I run my palms impatiently across my eyes – I can't see through the blasted tears. My voice shakes.

"And now I'll say the worst thing in my head, because it's true and you need to hear it, even if it will make you hate me more: I'm sickened that you continue to let the awful things that happened to you poison you, and infect your whole life. Especially when there is someone waiting for you who loves you," I sob angrily, "so much, with such a fierceness, that it frightens him to death. Who wants nothing more in this world than to be with you and take care of you and fucking heal you if he can, if only you would let him. If only you would come to your stupid bloody senses."

My voice breaks. I choke out the words.

"So if you leave, fuck you. Do not come back."

He hesitates a moment, then lifts the suitcase, walks by me without emotion, without a word, looking past my shoulder, and descends the stairs, pulling the door behind him. Through the screen I hear the cab door open, and shut. It pulls away.

I collapse in a ball, panting, onto the bed.