His grip tightens. "What was her name?" she asks.
I don't want to say his name. But Ana Lucía has a good grip on me and if I don't say so I'll raise suspicions. "Lulu," I say to the pillow. It's not even his real name, but it feels like a betrayal.
“Lulú”, says Ana Lucía. He lets go of me and sits on the bed. “A French girl. She was your girlfriend?
The morning light streams in through the window, pale and gray, tinting everything here a faint greenish. Somehow, the gray light of dawn had made Lulu shine in that white room.
"Of course not."
"Just another one of your adventures, then?" Ana Lucía's laugh answers her own question; knowledge irritates me.
That night at the art squat, after all, Lulu had smeared her finger on her wrist and I had done the same. A kind of code for the stain
