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“Your mother and I, we don’t love each other any more. That doesn’t mean we don’t love you.”
“Bullshit.” She pushes her chair back and jumps to her feet. “You don’t know the meaning of the word.”
Grabbing her bag, she sprints for the door.
“Carly!”
I want to order her to come back and finish her breakfast, but my common sense tells me to give her space until she has cooled down. Dwelling on my parental problems, I finish my breakfast alone, even if I no longer have an appetite.
Valentina’s voice pulls me to the present. “Can I clear the plates?”
The new melancholy that has invaded her makes her big, sad eyes more haunting than ever. I gather my plate and glass to carry it to the kitchen, and return with the tray while Valentina takes the rest. Knowing how proud she is, I try to make things easier for her without making it obvious. While I’m loading my plate in the dishwasher, I notice that she scoops Carly’s untouched muffin from the plate, carefully wrapping it in a paper napkin. The rest of my half-eaten muffin she packs into an ice cream container half-full with bones, bits of meat, and cooked vegetables, which she keeps in the staff fridge. I’ve never seen her clear the table before, but it’s obvious she’s in the habit of collecting the left overs. What does she do with the food that’s meant for the compost bin? My morning conference call is due, so I don’t give it further thought, but leave the kitchen with a feeling I can’t place. It’s as if my time with both Carly and Valentina is running out. I don’t like it. The last time I felt like this was right before I tripped a wire and was left for dead with half of my face blown to pieces.
* * *
I time my meetings so that I’m free during Valentina’s lunch breaks to check on her. Before going outside, I spend a few undisturbed minutes observing her through the kitchen window. I love looking at her like this, when her guard is down. The perverseness in me likes to invade her privacy, stealing a part of her I’ll otherwise never have. I came to accept that Valentina will never be one hundred percent open with me. Our forced relationship isn’t the kind that nurtures an unconditional sharing of the soul.
As always, she’s sitting on the low wall by the pool. Bruno is lying next to her on the grass, his head on his paws, staring up at her with doting eyes. Her hands are cupped around an object, like the petals that protect the stigma of a flower. She opens them to reveal something round and white. What is she holding? It looks like a paper napkin. Folding the napkin open carefully, she breaks the muffin that’s inside in two, and feeds one half to Bruno while she eats the other. The dog gobbles it up in one gulp, and wags his tail optimistically, watching to see if more is coming. She eats slowly, like a person who tastes every bite.
Everything inside of me slams to a standstill. What I’m witnessing is an ordinary scene of a woman nourishing her body, but it shatters me. I’ve seen many atrocious deeds and tortures that will make most grown men crumble, but this––Valentina eating our leftover food––this does something to me not even a killing does. I’ll double her allowance and buy her more food. I’ll put her brother in a fancy institute. I’ll do anything it takes for her to never have to eat the crumbs from someone else’s table again. That bursary better come through soon. I go back to my study and call my CFO, who ensures me it’s a matter of days now. Some red tape at the university is slowing down the process.
When I go to her that night, I decide to broach the subject. I strip her naked and drive my cock into her, keeping us both on a precipice of pleasure. I drag it out until neither of us can tolerate it any longer.
Her nails dig into my shoulders. “Gabriel, please.” She rocks her hips against mine, trying to create more friction.
I pull out almost completely and still my movements. “Who do you belong to?”
She shivers when I press my thumb on her clit. “You.”
“Who takes care of you?”
“You.”
“How do I take care of you?”
“However you like.”
“Damn right. How the hell ever I like.” Her back arches when I pinch her nipple. “Who makes you come?” I shove back into her.
“You,” she cries on a gasp.
“Who dresses you?”
“You.”
I move again in all earnest. “Who feeds you?”
“Ah, God, Gabriel! You.”
“That’s right, beautiful.” I kiss her lips. “Me.”
I slam our bodies together so hard I have to cup her head to prevent it from hitting the wall. She cries my name as she comes with a violent spasm, her pussy sucking me deeper and milking me dry. There’s nothing more satisfying than coming inside her. I empty my body in hers, making her take every drop, but I don’t pull out. Her cheeks are flushed, and her hair sticks to her damp forehead.
