RED 2: A Trick of Mirrors [#Wattys2017]

9. Hand-to-Hand Fighting

Marisa had just left the shower when Marco entered the cabin. Wrapped in a towel, she sat on the edge of the bed with her back to him combing her damp hair. She smelled of peach moisturizer. The mirror over the headboard replicated her profile and the motion of her hands coming and going, coming and going.

As he saw a drop of water roll from her hair to her shiny shoulder, Marco was overcome with an intense attraction inflamed by anger. He felt like shaking Marisa and demanding an explanation. He hadn't forgotten what she said at the Moon Rock Club. Now the episode at the pool was added to the list. Marco neared the bed and stood before Marisa.

She ignored him. She handled the comb with mechanical moves, increasingly fast. He gripped her wrist. She wrenched herself with a brusque gesture. He grasped the comb. She raised her hand and slapped his arm. The comb described an arabesque in the air and disappeared under the bed. Marisa glared at Marco, trembling. His dark irises speared, his lips pressed together, his nostrils quivered ever so slightly.

The two stared at each other for a never-ending moment. They were still the same and yet turned into strangers disfigured by resentment. And precisely because they had loved each other until then, the resentment—this cousin of rancor that also bore a bloodline with love—was deeper than between actual strangers.

The mirror registered when, in a fit, he made her lie down. His fingers closed around her wrists, and Marisa struggled mutely trying to kick him. Marco immobilized her with the weight of his body. She resisted, bit his shoulder, and that only added to his fury. His big hands increased the pressure until imprinting red marks on her flesh.

None of them said a word. Their lips emitted solely strangled gasps. She strained with all might and for an instant managed to free herself. Marco rapidly dominated her. In the midst of hassling, the towel loosened, Marisa got naked. They exchange another look, in suspension.

Then he kissed her. Angrily.

It was a wrestle, and Marisa countered each of his maneuvers with equal ferocity. Desire translated into a contradiction of intimacy and estrangement, advance and retreat, each caress on the borderline between fondling and hurting. She yanked off Marco's clothes, scratched his chest, clasped his flesh. He grabbed her hair, held it tightly at the nape of her neck and sank his teeth there.

Impatient, Marco touched Marisa between the legs, positioning himself on top of her. The heat from her body radiated to his and converged to the center of pleasure. An incandescent star pulsing, systole and diastole, a throbbing sparkle, a longing that was almost pain. He penetrated her with a firm trust and another and another, rougher, deeper. She moved her hips against his as if to devour him. They turned their bodies into weapons.

The only sound in the cabin was the frenzy of their flesh moaning and colliding. Far from satisfied, Marisa pushed Marco and mounted him. They restarted it. Now he was the one at her mercy. She plunged with renewed furor, rejoicing to watch him transfigured in climax, misty eyes, mouth ajar in catharsis. His pleasure commanded hers, Marisa was shaken by an acute spasm and collapsed over him, spent. Marco held her close as she surrendered to one last tremor. Thus they remained, their bodies sweaty, erratic breathing. Then, half-lifting herself, Marisa stared at him.

"Who's that Eliana?"

"I won't answer unless you tell me who was the man dipping in the pool with you." His tone, amused, carried an edge.

"Don't change the subject."

"What was he like? Blond? Dark? Handsome, ugly...?"

"Marco, enough!"

Marisa ruffled his hair.

"Hey!" He shrank away, laughing. "Eliana is a Brazilian friend from the time I lived in San Francisco."

"Close friends, eh?" Marisa asked caustically.

Marco ran his fingers across her shoulder and forearm. His face no longer revealed any vestige of humor. He clarified the two hadn't spoken in years and he'd met Eliana by chance on his way to the pool. She was quite distraught and Marco didn't have the courage to leave her by herself.

"She's from São Paulo too. Years ago she married a Robert Fleming, a doctor from San Diego, and now their relationship is in crisis. He wasn't even coming on the cruise and decided to accompany her at the last minute. The two had just had a fight when I saw her and Eliana blurted she wanted to get a divorce." Marco lingered in a pause. "I advised her to be patient. I explained that you and I also deal with problems like any couple and that doesn't mean we intend to split up."

At those words, Marisa's features softened. She instinctively rested her open palm on Marco's chest to ensure he wasn't going anywhere.

"You never told me why your marriage ended."

Caught by surprise, Marco stiffened, forcing a smile.

"Did you know, Mari, until the 18th century passion was regarded as a disease? People deemed it an eye infection that affected the heart and the brain, and could even cause death. Divorce has cured me."

"Stop joking. You're always evasive when it comes to your marriage. All you told me was you and your wife always argued. Why were you constantly fighting?"

Marco began to protest. He gave up.

"It's not something I like to remember, but you have the right to know." He hesitated. At last, he simply said: "She cheated on me. And our relationship ended just the way it started. Unfaithful." 

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