31: A Bottle

Mario knew that answer was neither yes nor no — and yet it made him happier than any other response could have.
"I wouldn't want to show it to anyone."
Marta was surprised.
"Then why get a tattoo?"
Mario looked up at the ceiling as though he could see clouds drifting past on the other side. He smiled faintly.
"If you weren't my father's wife, I wouldn't mind others seeing it." He didn't want to look at her face — he feared his own reaction if their eyes met. "A sign of rebellion I don't regret, but one I can't show — because it would destroy you. And if I hurt you, I'd die. I'd never forgive myself."
Marta looked at him with equal parts intensity and seriousness.
"I need to see it," she said.
"Not here." His eyes were beginning to redden.
"Mario." Marta lowered her voice even further. "Look at me. If you don't want me to cry for you, then I don't want you to cry for me. This is something we did together — now show me the tattoo."
"Someone could come out at any moment, Marta." He hedged.
"Let's go to my office or yours — you can show me there."
Mario exhaled and stood up. He took a breath to steady himself and offered Marta his hand.
"My office is next to Melisa's, and yours is next to my father's."
Marta rolled her eyes.
"Mine then."
Marta pulled Mario into her office and turned the lock on the door.
Mario began undoing the first dark button of his burgundy shirt — his heart was racing by the second and he barely managed even one, he was so nervous.
"Here—" Marta stepped towards him "—let me help." She raised her hands slowly towards his, without touching.
Mario watched her.
"You're trembling."
"No." Marta frowned, looked at her own hands, and her breath came out unsteady — as though she too were trembling. "I'm fighting."
"I would also love to lose myself in you, Marta — here and now."
Marta lifted her eyes slowly — having placed her hands over his, her gaze travelled from the base of his throat, up to his Adam's apple and his chin, and came to rest on his mouth — where she stopped, holding her breath.
"I'm afraid that if I kiss you, I won't be able to stop."
"Then don't."
Mario took Marta's hands, which had already undone the second button, and guided them up to the collar of his shirt, sliding them gently beneath the fabric until they found the raised skin of the tattoo.
"Did it hurt?" Marta whispered, her eyes resting on the collarbone now visible.
Mario smiled with quiet complicity.
"It would hurt more if I hadn't done it." His voice dropped again at the feel of Marta's hands on his skin.
She lifted his shirt until the drawing was fully uncovered and stood there, transfixed.
"A cork."
"I told you — we'll always have El Corcho." Mario breathed in deeply and the scent of pineapple and pine nut reached him, and he tried to steady himself. "Do you see anything else?"
Marta blinked — her own body fighting against the pleasure of having Mario so close. She studied the tattoo and noticed the representation of the compressed cork bark.
She found an M easily, and from there read ARTA in an instant.
"My name?" She didn't know whether to feel flattered or hurt — but she knew, with complete certainty, that she was deeply loved.
"There could never be any other." Mario moved close to Marta and kissed her.
She surrendered — letting herself be carried by the subtle scent of chocolate, melting into Mario's lips as though her life depended on it.
He released her hands to open his arms and fold her into them.
When they pulled apart to breathe, Marta allowed herself one observation.
"You're right — you can't show it to anyone."
"If it were up to me, only you would ever see it."
Marta gave a half-smile, accepting.
"And that's how it's ended up, hasn't it?"
Mario pressed his forehead to Marta's and closed his eyes, exhaling.
"We need to go back."
"Or they'll worry."
The embrace dissolved like sea foam — slowly. Marta held his hand while with the other she managed to fasten his shirt.
They looked in the small office fridge and found it empty.
"I have a better idea," Mario said. "I think I still have a couple at home."
"Your home?"
"It's fine — I don't bite."
"I'll spare the comment on that to avoid temptation — but what would I be doing at your home?" Marta was already back to her usual self — bright, decisive, composed.
"I—" He tried not to sound too eager, but something in his tone gave him away. "I think it's only fair — I've seen your home and your past. You should see mine."
Marta tilted her head. It was such a tender, childlike gesture to spring from something as mature as a sense of fairness — she could only smile with warmth.
"Are we two children, or what?"
Mario loosened his hand, as if simply going along with the moment, and blinked, puzzled.
"You don't want to?"
"I genuinely appreciate it — but it's also your father's home, isn't it?"
"We can make up any excuse, Marta."
She parted her lips slightly, looked towards the locked door and instinctively bit her lip.
"I have an idea—" a mischievous smile began to form on her face "—let's get someone else to suggest it."
Mario's eyes went wide and he smiled too.
"What a devious side — I love it!"
Marta let him go and unlocked the door.
"Cross your arms — look like you're not happy about something."
"And what is it I'm not happy about?" Mario said drily, amused, positioning himself as instructed.
"The fridge is empty — obviously."
Marta opened the door fully and found Manuel coming from the boardroom, about five metres away. Explaining the locked door would have been rather difficult — there was something providential about the timing.
"Oh—" Manuel looked at Mario's expression. "What's that face for?"
"There's nothing to drink a toast with," Marta answered for him. "We even checked my fridge and it's empty."
"Don't worry, son—" Manuel gave his son a smile of infinite tenderness. "Go home and bring back the two bottles of wine in the kitchen fridge."
Marta turned to Mario, and with her back to Manuel, smiled with quiet mischief.
"Wine works just as well." She said.
"True—" the young man relaxed, uncrossing his arms "—would you like to come with me, Marta?"
"All right."