The two sat there, pensive. Eventually, without speaking about it, they broke off the sessions forever. Until one time she invited him to dinner. That day she woke up early, purposeful, calm, and happy. The week before she’d received her allowance — she went out, bought meat, flowers, eggs, wine, jam, rice, vegetables — and for so long her kitchen had been clean, the flies buzzing famished in the sun. Surprised and adopting an attitude of disdain she bought for herself a decorative tortoise comb. She returned home with her face flushed, her arms full of packages — she felt that she was being one of the most truthful people she could be, she was understanding this by the natural and direct gazes of others. These would accompany her with more astonishment when she wasn’t carrying anything in her arms. She washed the meat, embarrassed interrupted with a chummy brutality her light humming, her face flushed, salted it, cooked rice with tomato while sighing. She was feeling good, fervently good, as if the deepest part of things were strewing itself in nobility. She made small fried balls of carrot and eggs, rolling the dough with a woman’s intimate fingers, her eyebrows furrowed — she would have liked to be small and watching herself envious that she could play around in the kitchen. She prepared a trembling dessert of cream and jam, the kitchen and the sitting room were vividly filled with movements, she seemed to almost be bumping into herself. At two in the afternoon she felt famished and weak; she didn’t like to go to restaurants, she still felt a bit ashamed to eat in front of others. But today she was such a busy person, with so much to deal with, having a house that needed to be taken care of, a kitchen where there was stuff to do — it was obvious that this was no time to be sensitive to herself, she thought worried. She got dressed, went to a creamery, had a lunch of eggs and coffee. She returned down the street filled with sun, now discouraged and sluggish, almost apprehensive; went into the house — yes, they were preparations as if for a party, her heart was squeezing pained in a smile. In the afternoon she bathed, washed her hair, put on the tortoiseshell comb, the white dress — beneath the tight bodice she was feeling that physical constraint that gave her at the same time the certainty of being elegant. She went out in the wind with wet and smooth hair to buy bread and a stronger light bulb — and there was no one to offend her ever. She went back home as night was falling, set the table, arranged the silverware, changed the light bulb, cut the meat in steaks atop the frying pan brought from Upper Marsh — she’d stop short from time to time, bend over with a kind of grimace as if feeling a sudden pain; but it was just some feeling of extreme hope and fullness, and since she was alone she could bend over. She powdered her face. She turned off the light and sat by the window to wait and dry her skin, moist and cold with sweat. In the half-light things were shining calm, clean, and fragrant. She sighed. The work on the construction sites had long since stopped, a fragrance of jasmine was coming from the narrow street where a few lovers were already strolling. The moon appeared in the dark sky, a warm summer wind was passing through the city, the neighbors’ silverware had stopped clinking. A light numbness took her over deepening her, an unreality full of promise and fatigue was enveloping her weakening her. The moon was rising, a few couples of lovers were saying goodbye. There was a knock at the door. She jumped, got moving, her firm thigh was penetrated by the deaf corner of the table, she breathed getting a grip on herself, the strong pain connected to her own smell of powder and cool sweat; she flipped the switch, light gushed with intensity over her eyes weakened by the darkness, she was surprised because she’d forgotten she’d changed the light bulb. Barely making out the violent outline of things, she opened the door, Miguel was entering drying his forehead with the checkered handkerchief and stopping surprised, looking at Virgínia’s silk clothes, the snowy tablecloth, the joyful and rich light, the silverware sparkling. The flowers . . .
“But you
