The Neighbor's Wife

When the last customer left the bar, the door of "Antonio's Corner" closed with a dull thud. Rosario, her back aching, moved through the empty establishment collecting glasses and ashtrays. The smell of tobacco and alcohol mingled with the scent of bleach. After scrubbing the bar and sweeping up the scattered peanuts, she opened the cash register to count the day's earnings. Among the bills and coins, the black rectangle of her husband's mobile phone shone under the dim light. Antonio had forgotten it there.

Rosario picked up the phone. Her intention was to put it away until his return, but as she did, her thumb brushed the screen and it suddenly lit up with a bluish glow, displaying a close-up image.

For a moment, her mind refused to comprehend. It only registered a smear of garish colours: the shrill orange of a wall, the brown of cheap woodwork... and she instantly recognized the setting: one of those anonymous, seedy roadside motels, a place for furtive encounters. In one corner of the screen, the date and time were displayed. The photo was from two days ago. From the very afternoon he, with his most affectionate smile, had kissed her forehead promising to return soon.

—"I have to go to La Coruña, my love," he had said. "It's for the bar's paperwork, an urgent signature at the accountant's. I might not be back until tomorrow."

Then, as if a veil had been torn, the image acquired a devastating meaning. Antonio's arms—the same ones that had carried a thousand crates of bottles and had held her on sleepless nights—were wrapped with intimate familiarity around another woman's waist. His calloused, familiar fingers dug into the fabric of her white blouse, embracing her, possessing her.

She was younger than her. She had an easy, youthful laugh, her head was tilted, and her gaze held a look of triumph that pierced through the screen as she took the picture of the two of them, facing the motel room mirror. Her face reflected the satisfaction of someone who has gotten what they wanted, and around her neck, she wore a chain with a small silver crucifix that glittered with the arrogance of a newly conquered love.

His smile was the shameless smile of someone freed from his life, from his attachments, from his history. That smile stabbed her heart. Twenty years of a shared life, of dreams and sacrifices, shattered into pieces in the cold rectangle of glass trembling in her hand.

The silence of the bar became absolute. Rosario's world, as orderly as the bottles lined up on the shelves behind her, crumbled. The woman did not cry. A glacial coldness, sharper than the ice-pick knife, took hold of her. The next day, Antonio returned with his tale about the accountant's office, bringing a bouquet of yellow roses for her. Rosario received him, serving his coffee as always. But something in her eyes had changed; they were no longer the warm refuge of before, but a cold pane of glass.

It started with Don Emiliano, the lonely widower, who always sat at the corner table by the bar.

—You seem tired today, Don Emiliano. A cognac to warm you up? — she said, pouring him a generous measure.

—You are very kind, Rosario. This place wouldn't be the same without you.

When his wrinkled hand rested on hers, she didn't pull away. She gave him a smile that wasn't one from a waitress. An hour later, with the bar now empty, she approached him.

—Don Emiliano, would you be so kind as to give me a hand? There's a box of bottles in the back room that's too much for me.

The old man nodded, with an unusual gleam in his eyes. He followed her through the curtains. In the back room, amidst the dust and the silence of the empty beer crates, Rosario turned to him.

—That's the box, — she lied, pointing to a random stack.

Don Emiliano turned, confused. Then, she closed the distance between them. She didn't say a word. She just placed a hand on his rough cheek and kissed lips that tasted of loneliness and black tobacco. There was no pleasure in that contact, only the rough texture of another's skin. When they separated, the darkness hid their expressions.

—Rosario, I... — the old man stammered, bewildered.

—Shhh, — she silenced him with a sad smile. —You don't need to say anything. You've been a great help to me.

Then came Mario, the young construction worker from the site across the street. Muscular, with skin tanned by the sun and a smile that was a challenge, he had always hit on her with a nerve that bordered on rudeness.

—Hey, Rosario, when are you going to invite me for something better than a coffee? — he tossed out that same afternoon, leaning on the bar with an arrogance that betrayed his twenty-something years.

Rosario, instead of ignoring him as usual, held his gaze. A faint, calculated smile played on her lips.
—Maybe your luck will change one day, Mario.

It was that same night, after the last customer had left and the lights were turned off. From the door, she saw Mario's silhouette smoking a final cigarette in the square. She acted. With a precise movement, she locked the bar door and left the keys, large and visible, hanging on the inside of the lock. Then, she waited to signal him so he would see.

—Hey, Rosario, are you okay? I saw you locked up, but... did you leave the keys in the door?

She approached the glass door, feigning consternation.
—My God, you're right. How careless. Antonio will kill me tomorrow.

Mario straightened up, puffing out his chest. The cock of the walk finding his moment of glory.
—Don't worry. I'll help you out.

With surprising agility, he slipped into the side alley and, after struggling for a moment with the old, rusty bathroom window, managed to open it from the outside and dropped inside. A few seconds later, the main door opened with a click.

—Mission accomplished! — he announced, boastfully, brushing the dust off his pants.

—You're my savior, Mario, — said Rosario, her voice like thick silk. She locked the door properly this time and walked to the bar. She pulled out a bottle of whiskey and poured two generous measures without asking. —Here. You've earned it.

They drank. He, in one gulp, eager. She, sipping slowly, watching him over the rim of the glass. His eyes shone with an avarice that she found as transparent as it was pathetic.

—I've always thought you were an incredible woman, Rosario, — he mumbled, moving closer. The alcohol gave him fictitious courage.

She didn't move when he wrapped his strong arms around her waist. He lifted her easily and sat her on the bar, cold even through the fabric of her skirt. He positioned himself between her legs, burying his face in her neck, already panting with a primal, urgent desire. His hands, rough as sandpaper, roamed her thighs.

Rosario let it happen. She rested her palms on the cold zinc surface of the bar and let her body relax. She felt nothing as Mario's lips began to eagerly trace her skin with hunger. Her mind was elsewhere, savoring the taste of revenge in her lover.

***

**mvf**