t woman'

be with me already. He would have chosen by now, crossed the line, and left it all behind. But he doesn't. And he doesn't

every word into a lie disguised as truth, every absence into a void that consumes me. And here I am, waiting,

this obligation, I will always be the other. And

2:23 in the morning. Sitting on the couch, wearing an old college sweatshirt, my hair tied back in a crooked bun, my lipstick smudged fr

atsApp as if I were a lawyer on call. In a way, I am. The only difference is that

me "as soon as I ge

is king-size bed. Rebeca, his wife, must be lying next to me, watching the show, worrying ab

I open it again. It's automatic, like obsessive-compulsive disorder. The only thing that's changed since

al at the Cambuí delicatessen. At the time, I thought it was elegant. Now I look at it

he fridge door, I'm turning it so fast. It's

y sense of reality when I lose mine, which has been happening to

you a

. I write slowly, as

rtuna

ve this woman. I love her more than this man. To

appeared

nce. It's style. It's

ry gh

self. She kno

like a sale on clothes. He seems worth it, b

ery poeti

, Marília."

m not l

ows me. It smells of fabric softener and loneliness. My phone rests on my lap, heavy, warm, almost an e

ing a movie: the first night with him. The first crooked smile. The firs

ven know where Dubai is. But I thought he was sexy. He looked at me like I was the first woman on the planet.

rofile, of course. I follow her with a fake account I created just for that. There it is: a photo of her today, at a gala. Black

y. She is competing. Even if it's wit

behind her, holding a glass of sparkling wine, a smile I recognize. That smile that di

oing this. I sh

ld blo

I should,

ing anything. Not

essage. I hit play and tur

nt is, if he wanted to give it all up, he would have done it already. You know it, I know it, even the doorman at your building

I hate it wh

he couch, my phone dangling from my hand, like a ticking time bomb.

is colorful chaos that sparkles when it appears and fades wh

buzzes. I hold my

s n

right now. Even more: I want it here, instead of pizza. The worst

owhere, full of explanations. He'll tell me his phone battery died. That

want to believe him. I will convince myself that I am specia

still smells of his perfume. I still feel the touch of his beard on m

ndependent daughter, a lawyer with a smiling photo on the firm's website. "Marília Marques, specialist in

messages. No audio. No lame excuses. N

er is the only thing that still reminds me of w

remember who wrote it: "Sometimes we hurt ourselves little by little, just to

if it

f I di

. Of course I will. Because I am Marília Marques: a senior la