Something tells you to look. So you do.I’m talking to you and you are smiling. Smiling. When was the last time I saw that, I wonder? That day at your sister’s when the little Yorkie took a nosedive into the cake you’d both worked so hard on all morning? You laughed then. Does that count?
We’re sitting in a café. The sky is overcast. You say, I think it will rain. And you’re probably right; you so often are. Clouds move across the pampas, dark and swollen.
I find myself momentarily unsettled by your mirth; the way you’ve cocked your head slightly to the side, surveying the horizon from behind large-framed sunglasses before turning your eyes on me. A look of complete satisfaction, as if some great burden has been lifted from you (and I suppose it has); a cleansing sigh of relief reflecting my own mounting disease.
I’m compelled to look away. So I do.
I study the laces of my shoe, and then the table’s edge, and finally your face. The curve of your jaw yields to near perfect whiteness at the crook of your neck, and then, down, down, to disappear behind the soft cotton of your blouse. Indigo. I remember when you bought it. Mexico City, 1992. I can trace each blemish hidden underneath the worn fabric. I count them one by one in my mind’s eye, like a child counting stars.
Now you remove your glasses and I see you as if for the first time. The clutch of fine lines etched grudgingly from the corner of each eye to the soft skin of your temple. You’ve had your hair highlighted. Streaks of platinum terminate in dark roots a half-inch from your scalp. Had I not noticed before?
Suddenly I consider how little I know you.
We’ve come here to get away. It’ll be good, you said. And it was. You are, after all, so often right.
We spent the first three days in Rio at a tiny bed and breakfast near the Barra da Tijuca. We lounged on the beach and drank Cachaça and even danced a little in the hotel lounge. We kept time to the music in a tentative embrace. You’re supposed to lead, you joked. Look. You put your arm on my hip and guided us across the floor. On every side sweating couples lurched and swayed to the thumping samba. And all the while that steely resolve.
Later we moved south into the Serra Gaúcha where we’ve spent the last four days sampling the rich local reds and hunting waterfalls.
It was here you chose to tell me. I suppose you had your reasons.
Last night I watched you sleep. With each cycle of your breath, the rise and fall of your small breasts a catalyst drawing me deeper into the abyss of memory. I spent hours ensnared in its stinging nectar only to wake in the morning to the cold reality that all is said and done.
And here you are. Smiling.
Tomorrow we go home. I imagine the boxes, your boxes, neatly stacked in rows in the pantry behind the kitchen, our kitchen. You'll find solace in their uniformity, in the perfect order of their existence, the way they take up just enough space.
Earlier you tried to explain it to me again. Things change, people change. But you’d said that before (it made just as little sense to me then) and I’m beginning to suspect you find it equally absurd.
You used to be so… right.
Behind the inn, soft pillows of hydrangea, pink and blue like spun sugar, stretch on for what seems like miles. Farther out across the tall grass a gaucho on horseback is leading a herd of sheep across the darkening horizon. The dogs that follow yelp and snap at the heels of the animals, which skirt ahead in halting bounds.
Just then thunder rumbles in the distance and the first heavy drops begin to fall, and I think, just maybe, I’m starting to get it after all.

