32: A Photograph

Being able to leave the building together felt like receiving a gift for no reason at all.
Mario was happy — visibly so. Marta felt buoyant, and it showed in the anticipation on her face.
They crossed the street and approached the nearest entrance.
"What are we doing here?"
"Going to my place." Mario looked at her with amusement.
"You live across from work?"
"Yes."
"And why would you want to give that up?"
Mario opened the door and held it so Marta could go first.
"Would you bring my father and me to your flat in Vallecas?"
"That's where I lived my life with Sebastián — Melisa and Julián's father." Marta shrugged, as though it were simply a fact.
They called the lift.
"Same reason, then — my father wants somewhere that doesn't remind him of my mother around every corner."
"The current property market is actually favourable for selling or renting." She looked up at the building's interior. "It's a very good area."
The lift opened in front of them. They got in.
"I don't know what my father wants to do with it — it's not my concern." He pressed number six.
"I feel a little uncomfortable, to be honest."
"Why's that?" Mario raised his eyebrows and gave a half-smile, watching Marta with curiosity — though his smile had already found the answer before he heard it.
"I'm coming as your stepmother — but that's not what this is at all."
The lift opened onto a long corridor.
Mario stepped out, Marta behind him. They walked to the end — the last door — and Mario took out his keys.
"Can you believe you're the first girl I've ever brought home?"
"Blimey!" It slipped out. "Seriously?"
He opened the door and they went in, closing it behind them.
"Yes. And the only one."
"What would Marcela have thought if she'd met me?" Marta decided to play with fire.
Mario was surprised by the suggestion and looked at her with caution.
"What does my mother have to do with this?"
"It's undeniable — she'd have seen her son bringing home a woman her own age. It's quite something." She argued.
"Her age as a daughter-in-law?" Mario latched onto the hypothesis — it sounded wonderful to him. "I like what you're implying."
"Oh, come on, Mario!" Her smile was faint, and she felt she was stating the obvious. "It's plain for anyone to see that I'm older than you!"
"I love that you assume something so beautiful—" he turned and moved towards her, slowly "—and yet you still refuse to understand that the only thing that would matter is that it would be you by my side."
"Why do you feel the need to keep saying you love me?" Marta tilted her head. "Do you think I doubt it?" She shook her head with energy, frowning slightly.
"I know what you feel for me and you know what I feel—" he raised his hands and placed them on her shoulders "—but I don't think you fully understand the weight of it, when you never stop saying you're too old for me."
"Because I am."
They were standing face to face in the hallway of the flat, barely five centimetres apart.
"The only thing that stops me from loving you is that if I do — I destroy you."
Marta closed her eyes and exhaled. Having Mario this close did little to settle her.
"Mario. The wine."
"Right." He made to take a step, but then something occurred to him. "Come to my room."
"What — your room?"
"Yes, of course — it's not that outrageous. I know yours."
Mario had been sliding his hands down Marta's arms, and now had her by the hands. He began walking backwards, facing her.
Knowing every piece of furniture in the flat, he had no trouble sidestepping a small sideboard beneath a mirror.
Marta noticed it — and when she saw herself reflected in Mario's hands, what looked back at her was a perfectly ordinary couple. Just a man and a woman. She smiled with quiet pride.
When they entered the bedroom, she was surprised by how austere it was — just the bed and a mirrored wardrobe — save for a large bookcase packed with books.
"I don't know why, but reading suits you."
He brought out his most charming side.
"Well—" he smiled "—I've tried a few hobbies and reading is the one that comes closest to what I really like."
"And what's that?" she asked with complete innocence.
"Looking at you." He didn't hesitate.
She was completely caught off guard — flushed, and stamped her foot lightly in response.
"Blockhead!" It came out on its own — in his presence, it seemed to have become automatic.
Mario went to the bookcase and lifted a group of hollow books, took out a camera and, as if afraid the moment might dissolve, took her photograph.
"Delete that immediately!" Marta protested.
"It's analogue — sorry!" He laughed as he put the camera away. "Shall we get those bottles of wine?"
"You're the first person I've ever met who would rather wait than see it straight away."
Marta felt exposed by Mario's spontaneity — and it was strangely pleasurable.
"My mother gave it to me when I was born — or so she said — to capture the essence of things." He took her by the shoulders and turned her, guiding her towards the kitchen. "She believed that photos you can check immediately lose the beauty of the spontaneous."
Marta turned her head back, looking for Mario's face while he guided her from behind along the hallway.
"That's why you're like this — so spontaneous."
They reached the kitchen.
"Well, not to draw comparisons, but until last week I think your dear Melisa would have said quite the opposite." He clicked his tongue.
"Hey!" She went slightly jealous. "Does that bother you?"
"No — not even when I knew she was right."
"She's my daughter — but knowing you went on several dates with her makes my chest burn."
Mario moved close, locked one arm around her shoulders and kissed her urgently — while opening the fridge with his other hand. When they pulled apart to breathe, he was full of determination, and she was full of surprise.
"Never be jealous of Melisa — do you hear me? Never."