Everything's wrong, but it's fine. You became the mistress.

log

collection that I never wan

es of women. I've always spoken

s-and a few tears-

ars old, a senior lawyer,

ove routine. I ha

t with my glass of Cabernet than

ss joker-decided to gift me w

sharp conversatio

status that she convenie

Campinas, my mascara running, my heart racing like I've ha

ck door. Rebec

e's name. P

. Or rather

run. Hi

know w

d lipstick, stare at myself in the illum

. You've become a statist

ou always swore

ecame the o

would have blocked him, ignored him, forgotten him. But it

ing to save), and on my collection of imported win

"Poor thing, she doesn't value herself, she's a fo

I'm here, locked in the bathroom of a boutique hotel in Campinas, my mascara running, my

k door. Rebecca

f my wife. Name

worded clauses in a contract, a client trying to back out, an ex-boyfriend who disap

et my phone slide across the marble counter. I

ralyzes me is a persistent little voice inside my head repeating: "Congratula

ned into a smear worthy of a depressed clown. A strand of mascara runs down my chee

use Fábio is married? Bec

smile that this was going to be a disaster,

a beige suit, reviewing a contract in a sha

out loud, surrounded by people laughing at his bad jo

ed-if he could sit in the empty chair n

mouth more crooked than the other, a little lazy. The kind where they take off your clothes without touching them. We talked about t

ngers brushed against mine. I went home with a pang in

rgent legal questio

d have

have de

s of Cabernet, and watched some stup

ad, I

hich res

looked again at the message blinking on

the lover flees through the

d crying about being the other woman? I'd pat her on the shoulder,

have listened to

breath. I'm dizzy. I don't know i

rded somewhere in the room, I've kicked off my heels, my dignity must be

t that

the po

married man to get off the sp

ce law, junior partner at the most respected firm in the city. I draft mil

e with the perfect wife, the perfect house, the life of a margarine salesman that

mes. I want to reply: "Fuck off, Fábio. I'm going out.

n't send it. I delete it. I write again. I delete aga

ck at me as if to say: "Really, Maríl

do

ater. I breathe. I mentally run through it: Clean phone? No screenshots? No messages? P

ts, half-empty wine glasses, a tie forgotten on the armchair. Her

It must be her. I picture her: stilettos, brushed hair, that jack

said she would be, unt

ged lipstick in the phone mirror. I don't even try

elevator is far away. The receptionist, poor thing, doesn't even

gh the emergency exit. The service stairs smell of cheap disinfecta

who I was before him. Before this chaos. The woman who wouldn't accept crumbs. The woman who thoug

is s

den inside me,

gain. I can't return a stolen kiss. I can

return m

again. Last notifi

for me. Everythi

empty stairwell. If anyone hears me, they'll thi

whispering

down, step by step, carrying my guilt, my heels, my wounded dignity, and that stupid

, dawn envelops me with its icy air and yellow st

s in my chest that screams,

now it'