RED 2: A Trick of Mirrors [#Wattys2017]

24. The Policy of Truth

They had advanced to the 1980s: the first chords of Depeche Mode's Policy of Truth were the perfect excuse for Marisa to leave the table. She towed Marco to the dance floor, not as much for his company—she was still irritated—as to remove him from the vicinity of Eliana. Hence the two of them found themselves alone amid the crowd. They coordinated their steps clapping hands, locking eyes, mirroring each other. Then Marco put his arms around her and, ignoring the music, guided her in a slow rhythm abiding by a particular beat: their own.

"It's been a while since you danced with me like this," she said in his ear.

"We can dance like this all night long."

Marco surprised her when he leaned to cover her lips with his. He had a tangy and sweet flavor of piña colada, which Marisa couldn't identify if it was from him or from herself. The kiss deepened, their mouths flirting in a slow dance to the same cadence of their legs. Marisa closed her eyes and laced her fingers around Marco's neck. His warmth welcomed her, the firm hands on her waist gave her the confidence of being wanted. The world, the real universe made sense again and Marisa's anger dissolved.

How could it be abated by a simple kiss? The problem was not Marco but Eliana, and she had turned into an insignificant dot there, where the music universe and the real universe merged. Marisa let the sounds carry her away, her feet barely touching the ground as Marco explored her mouth, inching back to nibble on her lip, teasing with the tip of his tongue, rocking her in a languid choreography with no rules. How good it was to be here, away from Eliana. When the image of Robert came to prowl on Marisa, she banished it from her thought. Now all that mattered was Marco and the music.

You can run, you can hide

But not from yourself

Sooner or later

You'll pay the price

It didn't take long for Robert and Eliana to join them. In the interim, something had changed between the two and Marisa couldn't define what it was: the eyes of both turned hermetic. The four remained on the dance floor until the 2000s. Back to the table, seated beside Eliana, Robert draped his arm over the bench backrest in a casual gesture implying a rapprochement, whereas she seemed to have calmed down. Moreover, Robert's inexpressive eyes no longer sent out any message to Marisa.

What a weird couple, she thought. One moment talking about divorce, the next sitting peacefully together. It had been that way since the beginning of the cruise. What if behind the marital crisis lurked a neurotic game requiring constant friction for sustaining the relationship? Perhaps Robert and Eliana were one of those couples that fought a hundred times and made amends a thousand. Meanwhile, they selected a supporting cast for their circular plot, fueling the tension with a crossfire of taunt and flirtation. Probably the two were more interested in their own game than in her and Marco.

Analyzing the situation from that angle brought relief to Marisa. And also a vague disappointment. As the night flowed off, she caught herself longing for Robert's attention. She concentrated on her relief—a mellower and more acceptable feeling—and ignored the disappointment that made her feel suddenly empty. Marisa repeated to herself soon none of that would have any importance, for Robert too would be reduced to an insignificant dot in the real universe. Robert and the doubt he had sowed in her mind. In her body.

There was only one more day left to the end of the cruise.

But many things could happen in one day. And the night, according to the saying, was young. Marisa went to the ladies' room and when she returned she didn't see Marco or Eliana at the table. They were dancing.

"I told them I'd wait for you. We need to talk," said Robert.

She stared at him in expectation, twisting a nervous lock of hair. Robert, no longer an insignificant dot, had grown to gigantic proportions and seized the real universe.  She caught herself once again divided between the fear that he would court her and the desire that he did so.

"Did you think about what I told you, Marisa?"

Sipping the last of her drink, she took her time to reply.

"I assumed you and Eliana had patched things up after your argument today."

"Our situation has stretched too thin and there's nothing left to patch."

"You two seemed okay."

"Eliana is disturbed and I hate to see her like this. But what was once love turned into friendship. I don't want to spoil Eliana's trip with a divorce request. I'll talk to her and start the legal procedures when we're back to San Diego."

One part of her rejoiced with the news—that would show Eliana and Marco one thing or two they ignored. The other part came down to earth.

"Robert, I don't know what to say. I'm flattered but my place is with Marco."

"And where is Marco?"

In face of her silence, Robert stroked her arm and laid his hand on hers. Time became oneiric, with its own plasticity stretching the seconds while they gazed at each other. Marisa didn't have the nerve to repel him, grateful for his intimate and reassuring touch and at the same time apprehensive that Marco would materialize by the table and see them. She relived the dream, her pleasure and fear. Marisa refused to name her own desire. If she did, it would crystallize and there would be no return.

Robert released her hand.

"Think about what I told you. I'm going to get us a drink. What would you like?"

Marisa shook her head with indifference. Robert nodded his understanding, stood and disappeared toward the bar. Alone at the table, she searched the dance floor but couldn't see Marco and Eliana. She counted to ten. Twenty. In an impulse, she rushed to the dance floor. Marisa had a hard time distinguishing the shapes only discernable by their ghostly props. Treading her way through the crowd, pushed back and forth, she proceeded to cover the whole perimeter of the club.

She caught the sight of them in a corner near the exit, the window pane mirroring their silhouettes close to each other, almost the same height thanks to her build and the platform heels she wore. Marisa noted, with a layer of horror, how the two matched physically, he tanned with strong features and she in delicate fairness that defied the sun, both so slender and complementary. They made a beautiful couple. Couple. And then the window pane seemed to shatter into a million shards flying in her direction, all at the same time, tearing her flesh in an explosion of pain and innards.

Oblivious of her presence, there they were. Marco moved his head in assent, calm and absorbed, Eliana leaned in and gesticulated to emphasize her speech with rhythmical blows. Marisa would give anything to hear them, but the music drowned out their dialogue. She intercepted a singular atmosphere in that conversation. Connivance — the two of them in their own bubble isolated from everything and everyone like lovers in the peak of passion, like accomplices of a crime. Marisa turned livid, and the blood barely drained from her face to return burning it with an acid corrosion.

Stomping on, she halted before them.

"Robert said you were dancing."

They reacted with disconcert. The sarcasm in her voice went unnoticed to Eliana, but not to Marco.

"The dance floor got too jammed," he justified, and took a step forward with a smile: "Let's go to the table."

Placing his arm across Marisa's back, he led her through the crowd. That gesture, familiar and comforting, came too late. Its warmth dispersed, his arm a dead weight serving only to feed Marisa's suspicion: maybe Marco feigned affection to deflect her from what she had witnessed.

And what exactly had she witnessed? Marisa couldn't tell for sure. In her mind echoed the last words uttered by Eliana before she had interrupted them.

I will file for divorce.

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Anyone curious?  :)