No alarm. No call. Only the instinct of a woman conditioned to serve everyone but herself.
No tears. No ache. Just the rhythm of breathing—shallow, hollow, automatic.
I dabbed my face with a damp cloth, swiped on lip balm, tied my hair low. Not attractive. Functional. Just alive enough to pass unnoticed.
Then I reached under the bed.
The red suitcase waited. I dragged it out, unzipped it a few inches. Inside: cash from quiet, unremarkable sales—empanadas, lumpia—money no one asked about. My passport, my maiden name. A photo of me at eighteen, smiling with audacity, unmarked by decades of slow erosion called marriage. I zipped it back up.
Downstairs, the kitchen remained shrouded in darkness. I boiled water, cracked eggs, sliced bread. My hands moved on autopilot. Stir. Season. Flip. Feed.
I was pouring coffee when I heard them—bare feet skimming the hardwood. Her giggle first. Then his laugh.
They entered like a pair on their honeymoon. Vivienne, wearing one of Marcello’s shirts, half-buttoned, legs bare, hair disheveled as if she’d just rolled off him—which she probably had. Marcello looked freshly showered, washed anew by the scent of her.