I almost succeed-that I have the righ

y throat, every time I remember his face: Rebeca, the wife, the one with the

love her.

I waited. I put

way. I know it. I know it very well. But I lie to myself because believing the lie is less work than facing the harsh

he water run, and imagine a perfect day: him knocking on my door

's what keeps me breathing bet

d contract. I mentally si

eaving

all me

g to me, he's

ove; she is

g to my skin, reminding me that I'm only half the story. I try to convince myself that I have the right to be happy, because I worked

g right. Why can

deserve the risk. I deserve Fábio, e

maybe I deserve punishmen

The water still hits the tiled wall, but it's no longer on me. The towel is lying on the

f the tile is the only solid thing I have now.

d then, almost without realizing it, I start my mental list. My Excuse List. It's my intimat

to break

ue, he would have already left the house where he sleeps with Rebeca, he would have already brought the suitcase, th

sn't l

house, the status of exemplary husband he pretends to have. He loves being t

ve to f

, so many nights curled up against a hard pillow, I think I deserve this disaster. I deserve the butterflies in my sto

y fault if

she was "fixing things at the office." It's not my fault if she says she's going out and comes back the next day with the same old story. It's not my fault. Or is it? I

The towel is cold. I wrap it around me like a leak

links on the nightstand. No

screen. I read the message: the p

it was worse: "I can't see you anymore." Maybe it was just a "Hello." It doe

irt, thrown on haphazardly. Its scent lingers in

e the "typing..." message. I see the disappear

el

lete

rything

lete

t you

the irony.

remember my mother saying as a teenager, "Married men don't abandon their wive

k,

guing over a mistaken delivery, someone is doing the dishes, someone is going to bed early. And here I am, Marí

lf full. I take a lukewarm sip. I close my eyes. I let the alc

ates. New mes

you t

ded to ask.

about what to write: "I don't want to

hit send in the mos

later, the a

," she whispers, a

y body tenses as if it's a new promise

reflection: wet hair, sunken eyes, mouth half-open

I'd break it," I say out l

ntract. It's a he

ll rings.

m downstairs. Wi

at me once more. And it smiles. A bitter smile. The smile

I op