Chapter Text
I saw you that December afternoon, one of those days when the snow doesn’t fall violently, but patiently, covering the roads and piling up at the entrances of shops as if it wanted to trap the world in silence.
I walked into that bar because I didn’t want to go home just yet. I didn’t want to face the gentle gaze of my wife, my dear Vera. To this day I still feel awful about what I did… about what I did to her. But that afternoon, as the bar door closed behind me and the cold remained outside, I wasn’t thinking about consequences. I just wanted to delay the inevitable.
The place was warm, filled with the scent of damp wood and cheap liquor. I sat at the far right corner of the bar. A tall man with a stern face and tired expression served me. I ordered something simple. Something strong. I drank it slowly, as if time could dissolve inside the glass.
A few minutes passed before you arrived.
The door opened again and the cold wind slipped in with you. You brushed the snow off your shoulders and walked to the bar. You sat right in the middle, beneath the warmest light in the room. You were wearing a white turtleneck sweater that contrasted with your pale skin. It made you look… soft. Clean. Untouchable.
You smiled at the tall man — the same one who had barely given me a dry look — and ordered a red drink, sweet and almost glowing under the light. It looked too sugary for my taste, but in your hands it seemed perfect.
I couldn’t take my eyes off you.
You talked to him with a kind of ease that unsettled me. You laughed. You leaned slightly over the counter. Your hands moved as you told your stories. He, who always wore a long, irritated face whenever I came in, seemed different with you. Lighter. More human.
You looked like you had known each other forever.
And I… I felt strange.
I shouldn’t have felt jealous. I didn’t know you. I didn’t even know your name. Besides, I was married. I loved my wife. Or at least I thought I did. But something inside me tightened anyway. It bothered me to see you so comfortable with someone else. It bothered me that you smiled like that and that it had nothing to do with me.
I tried to glance at you without being obvious. I pretended to check my glass, my phone, anything. But my eyes always returned to you.
You were warm like a ray of sunlight in the middle of winter. And maybe that’s why it hurt so much to look at you.
It was five in the afternoon. You stayed for two hours. In those two hours you only had two drinks, always with moderation. I, on the other hand, had six. I needed something to quiet the feeling you were awakening in me.
At one point you rested your elbows on the counter and said you had to leave, that you needed to check on your dog. He nodded, told you that was fine, that you should take care. And you smiled again.
When you stood up, the sweater adjusted to your body in a way that stole my breath. You walked toward the door, put on your coat, and disappeared into the snow.
I stayed there a few minutes longer.
Thinking about your lips.
The alcohol had tinted them a soft pink. They were wide, full, glossy. Not like Vera’s. Hers were small, delicate, pale. Beautiful in their own way. And I hated myself for comparing them. I hated myself for allowing the image of a stranger to mix with that of the woman I had sworn to love.
Fifteen minutes later, I paid the bill. I stepped into the cold. The snow crunched beneath my shoes. I got into my car and started the engine, but I didn’t drive right away.
I was thinking about your short black hair. Not greasy, not messy. It had a natural shine. It looked clean, fresh, as if you had just stepped out of the shower. I sighed.
I felt as if I were falling in love again.
And that terrified me.
When I arrived home, Vera was finishing dinner. The smell of warm food wrapped around me as soon as I opened the door. She greeted me with a smile and a hug that had always been my refuge.
“How was your day? Why are you so late?” she asked.
I lied.
I told her a coworker had invited me for drinks. That we talked longer than expected. I couldn’t tell her I had spent two hours watching another man. Analyzing every gesture. Every smile.
She believed me. She even congratulated me for socializing more with my coworkers. I sat at the table. I ate. I responded when she spoke. I pretended everything was normal.
The marital bed we bought when we got married felt bigger that night.
Before falling asleep, Vera told me she loved me.
I answered, “I love you too.”
But the words came out dry. Empty. As if they had gotten stuck in my throat
And while she breathed peacefully beside me, I closed my eyes and asked the world for just one thing:
To see you again.
To walk into that bar on an ordinary afternoon and find you there, beneath that warm light, wearing your white sweater and that easy smile.
Because something inside me knew that what I felt that afternoon was not temporary.
It was the beginning of something that could destroy everything.