41: The Obituary

His body answered for him — he let go of the keys and dropped the easel to hold her. His mind might have been driven by reproach, but it had no authority over any part of his body, not even his brain, which was already losing itself again in all the pineapple of her perfume.
"You're the only reason I'm not hating myself right now."
Marta pulled back slightly, surprised.
"I'm sorry?"
He was already showing half a smile when he kissed her, making clear the phrase had been nothing more than a passing thought let loose.
He moved his other hand to the key, and the lock opened without effort.
"Am I left-handed and never knew it?"
They went inside, but Marta noticed some wooden poles still on the pavement and let go of him for a moment to pick them up.
"Planning to take up painting while leaving your equipment on the street?" She laughed.
The urgency had taken hold of the laughter and set the jokes aside. When they reached the flat and opened the door, they nearly slipped on a newspaper that had been pushed under it. They picked it up from the floor and left it on a small, bare table in the hallway.
By the time they sank onto the sofa in what passed for a living room, their jackets were already on the floor beside the easel.
Marta caught her breath.
"I've gone four days, twenty-three hours and forty-four minutes without you."
He narrowed his eyes for a moment.
"Why are you counting now?"
"So you see that I keep track of you too."
He exhaled and looked at those hazel eyes with complete devotion.
"My body already answered for me."
"But I don't want you to regret having let yourself go one day in the future."
"A future—" his eyes began to brighten as Marta unbuttoned his shirt "—I like the sound of that."
She uncovered his shoulders, and the cork was there — vivid, almost luminous. She leaned in to kiss it.
"If you want—" she kissed the drawing again "—I could have the tribal removed." Another kiss. "Nobody ever liked it anyway—" another "—except me."
He removed her shirt, sitting up to hold her around the small of her back.
"What did he think of it?" He looked directly into her eyes.
"He called it tacky and ignored it."
"Well, I think it's glamorous — the sexiest thing I've ever seen."
Marta, surprised and playful, gave a half smile.
"Quiet."
She closed his mouth with a deep kiss.
With the emotional misunderstandings resolved, both bodies merged into one again.
They had missed each other so much that nothing else was needed. The rhythm of the night accompanied them with the light of a full moon coming through the window, and when they finally surrendered to exhaustion, their breathing fell into step and gave them a peace that was almost sedating.
Saturday had dawned luminous and blue.
Mario stretched as best he could and noticed the newspaper on the floor — the one they had nearly slipped on the night before.
Why was there a newspaper pushed under the door?
He tried to slide out from under his girl to look at it on the floor. Marta woke.
"What are you doing? Where are you going?"
"The newspaper."
"What?"
Mario got up and picked it up, not before checking the time on his watch.
"It's nearly half past eight—" he opened the paper and found the date "—the day before yesterday!" He read the handwritten note. "'I'm sorry to seem intrusive, but I read the obituary and when I saw the surname I felt I should let you know. Thank you. Yours, Joaquín.'"
"The estate agent?" Marta was puzzled.
Mario sat beside her and searched the paper for what the note referred to.
He found it — there were barely twelve or thirteen death notices, but the largest carried a significant name.
"Irene Montenegro Almendro?" He turned to his companion. "Was Aunt Margarita right?"
He read on and discovered the burial was at ten that morning at the South Funeral Home cemetery.
Marta noticed Mario hesitating.
"Do you want to go?"
"I should go. It was my grandparents Ernesto and Florinda who disowned her — and I'm not Manuel, or Marisa. I'm Mario."
Marta nodded with understanding, stroked his head and kissed him.
"Then I'm coming with you. I'll pop to the little house and put on something more appropriate, and we'll go to the burial."
"Marta, you really don't have to — honestly."
"But I want to be with you — even for this!"
An overflowing love made him drop the papers to kiss her and pull her close. She returned it fully.
They dressed and left hand in hand. They were able to walk to Marta's little house at the southern end of the same street, where they changed their clothes.
Mario's gaze stayed fixed on Marta's tribal tattoo, memorising every curve and detail, until she covered it with a white shirt.
She completed the outfit with a pair of charcoal grey trousers and a black jacket, finished with black accessories and matching heels.
"You're sexy in that too." He smiled.
She narrowed her eyes and looked at him with mischief.
"Do you want to arrive late to the funeral of an aunt you never met?"
He took her hand and pulled her in for an unplanned kiss.
"I usually dress dark anyway — I'm already ready."
Marta opened the wardrobe again, as she had the week before.
"Would you like another one of the shirts I bought in case Julián came to this house?"
Mario leaned in and scanned the darker ones.
"Do they even know you have this place — and what you intend to do with it?" He asked, taking a shirt the same brown as his hair, still with its tag on.
"They have no idea. I call it the spa."
He was pleasantly surprised and began to change his shirt.
"You put me here with that fictional girlfriend you invented!"
"Yes!"
He took off the burgundy shirt and put on the brown one.
"It's funny that your daughter should recommend, in a moment of revelation, that I leave the girlfriend you made up — because I'm in love with you."
Marta raised an eyebrow.
He put on his jacket, leaving the used shirt draped over the back of one of the dining chairs.
"Shall we go?"
"Together."