The morning began with a strange smell of expensive perfume… a smell that wasn’t for me.
My husband stood in front of the bedroom mirror, straightening his shirt as if he were going on an important date. Too much cologne, too much enthusiasm… too much of everything for someone who was supposedly just going to “work.”
I was in the kitchen, watching the coffee finish pouring into the cup.
In my right hand, I held a small bottle of laxative.
It wasn’t an impulsive decision.
It was the result of months of silence, of calls that ended when I entered the room, of “urgent meetings” on Friday nights.
And above all… about the message I saw last night.“I’ll be waiting for you tomorrow. Don’t forget the perfume I like.”
Signed by a certain Carolina.
New secretary at the office.
Elegant name… like a luxury shampoo.
I took a deep breath.
“And that coffee?” he asked from the kitchen doorway, adjusting his belt with more enthusiasm than he showed when we went to the movies together.
I brought the cup closer to him.
“A little gift,” I said, smiling with a calmness I didn’t even know I possessed.
I watched him drink.
One sip.
Two sips.
Three.
He drank it all.
Not a single complaint.
That hurt a little, to be honest… I had never drunk my coffee so fast when he was still looking at me with affection.
“And where are you going smelling so perfumed?” I asked, leaning against the door frame with my arms crossed.
“Meeting,” he replied, grabbing his car keys. “One of those important ones. You know… strategy, projections… synergy.”
He threw those words around like they were fancy excuses.
“Synergy with lace?” I murmured.
But he was already walking down the corridor.
The door closed.
Silence.
I looked at the clock.
One minute.
Of the.
Five.
I sat quietly at the kitchen table, waiting.
Ten minutes.
Ten.
And then…
glory.
“DAMN IT!” came a shout from the car.
I smiled.
I went out onto the porch with the most innocent expression in the world.
My husband was getting out of the car doubled over, one hand clutching his stomach as if he were holding a bomb about to explode.
He was running towards the house.
“What did you give me, you crazy woman?!” she yelled. “I can’t make it to the bathroom!”
I put a hand to my chest, feigning concern.
—Love… aren’t you falling in love?
He stopped for a second, pale.
-That?
—They say that when you’re nervous about a date… your body shows it.
—I WON’T MAKE IT!
He tried to run up the stairs.
—Ah —I added gently—. And don’t even think about using the upstairs bathroom.
He froze on the first step.
-Because?
—I’m cleaning it.
What followed was a scene I will never forget.
