“Yes you were unfair. It did hurt. If many nights I thought I’d stop trying. I’m not stone, Martin.
He ducked his head.
That was the strongest blow.
Not writing it.
Not the ground.
Not the plane.
It was understanding that Maribel was not a novel saint who endured without feeling.
She was a tired woman who had chosen to stay, even when her own husband made her feel alone.
“I don’t want you to apologize just today,” she said. I want you to change.
Martin nodded quickly.
I will change.
Don’t say it for crying. Say it with facts.
He took the card of bank from the table and put it in her hand.
Then she did something she didn’t expect.
He pulled out his cell phone, opened the bank’s app and showed him the screen.
“From tomorrow, we’ve seen him together. The bills, the payments, everything. I don’t want you to charge this alone anymore. And if there’s no chela, there’s no. If there’s for block, go for block.
Maribel looked at him for a long time.
Like I want to believe him, but be afraid.
“What about your friends?”
Martin wiped his face.
“They laugh. Let them say what they want. None of them are building a house for me.
For the first time all night, Maribel really smiled.
They sat down for dinner.
The chicken was already warm, but Martin knew as a banquet.
I looked at the plane between bite and bite.
“Was it the kitchen here?” he asked.
“Yes.
“With window Big?
Maribel smiled.
With large window. As you always wanted for me.
Martin took a hand to his chest.
“I thought you didn’t remember that nonsense anymore.
“It wasn’t nonsense,” she said. They were poor dreams, but dreams at last.
The next day, Martin did not go to the factory.
He asked for leave without pay, although before it would have hurt him to lose that day.
He accompanied Maribel to Tecámac.
They took combi, then another truck, then walked several dirt streets.
The ground was fenced with rusty mesh.
There was no grass.
There was no shadow.
Only dry dirt, stones and a sign twisted with white paint.
But when Maribel opened the lock, Martin came in as one steps on a miracle.
He squatted down, took a fist of dirt and cried again.
“Here’s the bugambilia,” she said, pointing to the entrance.
Martin smiled with red eyes.
“And here I’m going to put a chair to see you cook out the window.
“Don’t invent, dude,” Maribel said, laughing in tears. First we have to raise walls.
He laughed too.
That laugh came different.
Less heavy.
Cleaner.
They signed the last payment with Don Ernesto, a gentleman with a hat, a graying mustache and field hands.
There was no music.
There were no balloons.
There was no party.
Just a signature, a handshake and an old key that didn’t open any doors yet, but opened a future.
That night, Martin went back to the factory.
His companions soon bothered him.
What happened, compa? Now they let you go of wool?
