3: Breakfast

Mario sat up. He looked at Marta's bare back against the light and thought it the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
Which was why her words, as she got out of bed, cut so deeply.
"And that's it?" He was hoping for something more from her. "This is where it ends?"
Marta turned slightly, showing her profile. Her forehead, her nose, her lips, her chin, her neck. Mario studied her as though memorising every detail to recreate her perfectly.
When she looked at him, something broke inside him.
"I'm about to turn fifty and I have a stable life I can't throw away for one night of sex." Her eyes were asking his forgiveness, bright with emotion — even as her words and her voice said the opposite.
"Are you married?" Mario turned away, though he kept glancing at her over his shoulder. "Your age makes no difference to me."
"I'm not married. I divorced, and my ex-husband passed away." Marta said, fastening a grey satin shirt.
Mario got to his feet, came around the bed and stood in front of her, leaning down slightly to look her in the eyes.
"If no one's waiting for you, what's the problem?" Mario put his arms around her.
"I could be your mother, Mario." Her voice broke slightly.
"I don't care, Marta." Mario took her chin and kissed her urgently, as though he could bind her to him with that single gesture. "That makes no difference to me."
"How old are you —" Marta drew back a little, leaning away without pulling free from his arms, "— twenty-four?"
"Twenty-six." Mario leaned in to kiss her again.
Marta turned her head to the side so the kiss landed on the base of her neck. Mario followed the path upward, and when he reached her ear, a soft sound escaped her.
"Tell me you don't want this and I'll stop," he whispered into her ear, his voice low and serious. "But don't ask me to forget you. That would destroy me."
Marta faltered, and Mario caught her. When their eyes met, both were glistening.
"You can have breakfast if you want, but then you need to go." Marta pressed her forehead to his, smiling bitterly — and so did he.
"How would we define this?" he asked.
"Something that should never have happened, Mario."
He released her reluctantly and picked up his clothes.
"So be it." Mario was hurt — deeply. "And don't worry about feeding me. You're not my mother."
Mario put on his underwear, his thermal undershirt, his trousers and his outer layers.
Marta watched him dress, her eyes lingering on his sculpted abdomen and the clean lines of his body. She wanted with everything she had for Mario to stay. She ached to feel his skin, to breathe in his scent, to taste his lips, to kiss his mouth. And yet all she heard was the pain in his voice as she watched him leave — the bed, the room, her life.
Marta walked to the mirror on the wardrobe door and studied herself carefully. She was wearing little more than a thin satin shirt, poorly buttoned, and her neck was showing more skin than it should.
She noticed a reddish mark just below her ear and remembered her own sound. She pressed her lips together slightly, composed herself, and swapped her earrings for a pair of lacquered steel discs that covered it.
She put on a strapless bra before buttoning the shirt again. She slipped on the rest of her underwear, and as she pulled on her stockings, the image of how he had taken them off came to her. She shook her head and pushed the thought away. She took a jacket and skirt suit in off-white from the wardrobe.
She had not quite finished dressing when the intercom buzzed.
She feared it was Mario, and a warmth spread through her. When she picked up the intercom to ask who it was, she relaxed at the sound of Julián's voice.
"Mum, we're running late for GOZZE. Coming down?"
"I'll have a coffee and be right there. Give me a moment!"
A knock at the door interrupted her. She drank her coffee in one go, and decided to put the milk carton back in the fridge before answering.
And there it was. A small, white envelope, alone on the floor.
Another knock.
"Mum!" — upstairs, it was Melisa calling. "Are you coming?"
Marta slipped the envelope into her bag, rinsed her cup and left it in the sink.
When she opened the door, she found Melisa with her fist raised, about to knock again.
"The sheets got the better of me — sorry, darling." She said as she locked up.
Melisa, surprised, watched her mother pass with a touch of suspicion.
"Since when do the sheets ever get the better of you, Mum?"
"Meli, I'm my own boss. Don't you think I'm allowed to be a little late to work one day?"
Melisa raised her hands and pulled a face.
"I said nothing!"
Marta and Melisa went down to the car park, where Julián was waiting beside the car.
"You look radiant today, Mum!" Her son said when he saw her.
"She overslept — can you believe it?" Melisa complained.
"Well, if sleeping in makes her look that good, she can sleep in as long as she likes." Julián shrugged and got into the driver's seat.
Julián's car pulled out of the car park and headed towards the GOZZE offices. On the way, Julián mentioned something odd.
"When I pulled into the car park, I saw one of your neighbours using your second space to turn around and change direction."
Marta went pale as she realised it was no neighbour Julián had seen — it was Mario.
She turned towards the window. A tangle of conflicting feelings stirred inside her, and the only thing she could think to say was:
"Actually, even though I went to bed early, I had trouble falling asleep." She lied.
"That's not a healthy pattern — is something worrying you?" Melisa scolded from the back seat.
"I must have woken up on the right side of the bed." She deflected, making light of it.
"That's for sure!" Julián agreed, eyes fixed on the road.