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“Marcos, you rented an entire amusement park. You understand that, right? The Parque da Mônica[12], you rented the whole damn Parque da Mônica for a whole day so that forty kids would stay here for a few hours”
Saying the words doesn’t make them more believable to me.The entire Parque da Mônica. Attractions, characters, theater, recreators, even the souvenir shop is available for Isabella’s birthday, and I want to cry and laugh, all at the same time.In a strategic corner, the cake and candy table are positioned, surrounded by ballerinas and objects that refer to ballet of all possible sizes.
“So that no one has to worry about strange adults walking among these forty children, so that Isabella can go to the attraction she wants, as many times as she wants, without having to face a line... And, definitely, so that no logistical problem, such as lack of light” pretends to scold me “could be a problem, since it is inside a mall... It was obvious!” And there it is again, the feeling of choking in my chest.
The one for which the adjective familiar is already becoming insufficient so often.If before my heart jumped when seeing him, since we have really shared the bed, in addition to all the other parts of our lives, which despite our intentions, proved impossible to keep separate, it seems to have decided to practice physical exercises every time Marcos does something unexpectedly kind for Isabella, which happens all the time.
Or else, when he does something unexpectedly kind for me, which hasn’t been exactly rare either.Or just when he smiles at me.
I have not yet found a word that can define the relationship that Marcos and I have developed or how I feel about it.As for the way I behaved in the days leading up to it, I found countless.Silly, idiot, stupid, and the list goes on. Every day the feeling that I was wasting time every time I refused to look at Marcos without seeing my own thoughts in him grows.
The man next to me is not even remotely the same man who for a long time inhabited my certainty about the name he bears.Is he still barefaced? Absolutely!But he is a barefaced who, until today, only acted like this in my company when we are in bed. The Marcos I married never did anything but respect my wills, even when they were sustained by pure pretense.
In front of Isabella, we continue to act exactly as usual, although, at times, our gazes take indecent paths and, if we were talking about an adult, they probably would have already realized what is happening, but, if it is a child, not. She has no idea.
Every day, far more often than I’d like to admit, I find myself thinking about what it is I’m doing.Hollywood movies are full of stories like ours.Agreements of casual sex, of friendships with benefits, the end of all is always the same.
But that’s just in front of the cameras, I tell myself.Life is much more than that.In real life, couples exist beyond the wonderful sex they do and the rest is never as wonderful as the sex. It really is not.Or at least it shouldn’t be.
Then Marcos does something like that, rents an entire amusement park for my daughter’s birthday, or sits next to her as she talks desperately and non-stop about how her first, second, third, fourth, thirteenth ballet lessons went.
Or just hug me while I sleep, while he thinks I don’t know what he’s doing, and my heart decides that those moments, yes, those moments are great for bench press exercises and for reminding me that despite all that, I’m still not being completely honest with him.It decides that these moments are also excellent for torturing me for it.
I stare sideways furtively, confirming there’s no one around. There isn’t. I leave a kiss on his mouth.It’s a simple, snapped kiss, it has nothing but affection and gratitude in it, but the smile Marcos gives me in response could serve as a source of energy for each of the lights on around us.
He pulls me into his arms, glues his chest to my back, and sinks his nose into my neck.I close my eyes, allowing myself to enjoy the feeling.Now is not the time to deal with my guilt.Even though every day I get the impression that eventually the words will run through my mouth.Tired of being hidden for too long.
“Thank you...” I say with my eyes closed, and he turns me around, forcing me to abandon the darkness and leaving our gazes locked on each other. His hand caresses my cheek and anyone who passes us would think we’re playing at who spends the most time without blinking, but that’s not it.There’s a quiet conversation going on here, I have no idea how to interpret the words that are being said, but my heart seems really happy with them.
“You don’t have to thank me for things like that,Ella… Ever…” I let my breath out of my mouth. Why, Marcos?Why don’t I have to?I want to ask, actually, I decide I will.It’s just an innocent question, right? It’s no big deal. Right?
I miss my chance when our moment is interrupted by a childlike voice.
“Mommy!” Isabella runs toward us, and I slip out of my husband’s arms faster thanThe Flashhimself would have been able to.
He frowns, and I want to apologize for that. There are rare occasions when something like this happens, when Isabella comes close when we are so close, in all of them, I walk away, because it is the best option, but every day, it also seems more wrong.
On that I’m sure I can’t trust my own judgment, Isabella needs to keep seeing things exactly as she sees them.She doesn’t need another abrupt change now just to have another one months from now, even a couple of dozen of them.
But that doesn’t mean I like the almost painful expression evident on Marcos’ face every time this abrupt departure happens. I don’t.I wish I could avoid it.
I limit myself to a soundless apology before turning in vain toward Isabella, since it is Marcos’ arms she seeks, not mine.While this approach fills my chest, it also makes me more confident that I’m making the right choice.I can’t stop Isabella from clinging to Marcos on some level, after all, this is already happening.
But I can stop her from having misconceptions about him taking on a role that he doesn’t want, that he never wanted.I observe the exchange of smiles between the two and blink, casting my thoughts away.Grazi’s raised eyebrow, who brought Bella to us, tells me she knows where my thoughts have gone.
“Marcos! Have you seen my ballerina cake?” Isabella asks, excited, happy, very happy and I smile.I strive to keep the burning in my eyes under control.
“Not yet! Would you show me?” answers, as always, thoughtful with her.
“Sure!” He winks at me, limiting himself to a nod to Grazi and walked away with Isabella in his arms.
I watch the two reach the decoration table and Isabella entertains herself in showing not only the cake, but every candy and ornament that is on it.
“What are you doing?” my friend asks bluntly as she stands right next to me.I just rotate my neck and look at her.I bite my lip and admit it.
“I don’t know...”
“Nel...”
