36
DANTE
After that night, I wanted to see her again even before dropping her off at home.
I didn’t say that in the car. I kissed Cecília goodbye, waited for her to go inside, and headed back with the strange feeling of having slept well and yet still needing to get used to my own body again.
Saturday with Bento went ahead as planned. I took him out to play while Cecília finished up a few things from the week. When I got back, she greeted me with a smile that my son didn’t notice—he was too busy explaining why there was sand on his sneakers.
I noticed it.
Over the next few days, that smile reappeared in small moments. During a quick call, in a message she sent after Bento had fallen asleep, at the bakery door when I stopped by to pick her up at the agreed-upon time.
Some days she was tired; others, I had work to finish.
One evening, I brought food to her apartment and we resumed the movie I’d left halfway through.
Cecília criticized the acting; I missed a line while answering her and asked her to rewind.
On the third pause, she rested her feet against my leg and asked if we’d finish before breakfast. The following week, we took a short walk while Marina stayed with Bento.
I started saving things to tell her about: a ridiculous street sign, a line from the movie that I only understood later. Sometimes I’d send her a message, and she’d reply hours later.
I wanted to see her more often.
It was that desire that led me to speak up before asking.
***
Two weeks later, Cecília came over to my apartment for lunch with Bento.
It was his first visit there. I’d asked beforehand what I needed to set up and had left some space free in the living room for him to play. There was water, the food we’d agreed on, and a place for his backpack and the things he’d chosen to bring himself.
Bento walked in, looking up at the ceiling.
“It’s high,” he said.
“It is a little,” I replied.
He seemed satisfied with that observation and went to look at the window, accompanied by his mother.
Then he wanted to know where the bathroom was.
The apartment that had seemed ready to welcome him turned into a series of practical discoveries: the high light switch, the big chair, the faucet he couldn’t reach on his own.
Cecília showed me a way to help him wash his hands without getting his whole sleeve wet. On the second try, I managed it.
We had lunch. Bento spilled a little water, complained about a green leaf, and accepted another one after his mother cut it into smaller pieces. I watched him use my table as if it were part of an ordinary meal.
Afterward, he went to the rug to play with his toy cars.
Cecília and I cleared the plates. She knew the cabinets better since the morning we’d had coffee here, though she still opened the wrong one now and then. I liked seeing her move around the kitchen. Liked it too much, the ease with which my mind began completing the scene.
“Will the table in the back of your store need to be moved?” I asked.
She set a plate down in the sink.
“Probably. I’m waiting for the detailed estimate so I can decide on the first step.”
She talked about costs, what she could reuse, and an improvement she’d decided to postpone. I listened, but I was also thinking of an apartment with room for all three of us, a route to school, a routine that was beginning to seem possible.
“When you and Bento move in, it’ll be easier to arrange those hours,” I said.
Cecília paused.
I waited for her to ask about some detail of the commute.
She turned her face toward me.
“When?”
“It’s just a figure of speech.”
Cecília kept looking at me. I’d been thinking about schedules, traffic, space. I already had answers to questions she hadn’t asked.
“I was thinking…”
“Were you thinking for all three of us?”
Her voice remained low. Bento was playing in the living room, and she glanced in that direction before turning back to me.
I set the plate I was holding down on the counter.
“I’ve gone beyond what we talked about.”
“We haven’t talked about living together.”
“No, we haven’t.”
Cecília grabbed a dish towel and dried her hands slowly. I moved the wet plate aside so I could rest my arm on the counter.
“I like coming here,” she said. “I liked sleeping with you. That doesn’t mean I’m getting ready to move.”
I felt embarrassment rise up my neck.
“I know.”
She looked at me.
I corrected myself:
“I should have thought about that before I spoke. I want it to be a possibility someday. I spoke as though wanting it meant we’d agreed.”
Cecília rested her hands on the edge of the sink.
“My home works for me. His school, the route to the bakery, my mother nearby. There are things I chose after a long time when I could hardly choose anything. I don’t want them reduced to an interval between two lives with you.”
I listened until the end.
Through the door, I saw Bento push a toy car under the table. I didn’t even know if that route to school would be better for him. I’d imagined the two of them leaving there with me.
“You’re right,” I said. “I won’t treat your life as something temporary.”
Cecília remained silent for a few seconds.
“And I don’t want every disagreement to end with you telling me I’m right and looking sad.”
Her candor made me laugh nervously.
“All right. Then I’ll say something else. I want to live with you someday. I want to wake up together more often. But I can want that and still talk to you before making plans that depend on your life and his.”
She took a deep breath.
“That I can listen to.”
A drop trickled from the plate to the edge of the counter. I wiped it up before looking back at her.
“Do you want to talk about this now?” I asked.
“Not about the move. I want to finish lunch, go home afterward, and keep seeing you. That’s it for now.”
I nodded.
“That’s it for now.”
She picked up the last glass.
“And you can dry these, since you’re already here.”
I took the dishcloth she handed me.
***
The afternoon didn’t end because of the conversation.
That was the part that kept surprising me afterward.
We stayed in the living room with Bento, built a garage out of the objects he’d chosen, and listened to a story about a car that had to sleep under the table because it was raining on the rug. Cecília sat next to me. At some point, her knee brushed against mine and stayed there.
I stayed still so she wouldn’t pull her leg away.
Bento’s toy car rolled between our feet.
Later, I made coffee. Cecília asked for water, and Bento wanted some fruit. I grabbed the wrong bowl for him. My son pointed to the other one, with exaggerated patience.
I managed to laugh at myself.
When it was nearly time to leave, Cecília went for the backpack. I took Bento to the bathroom and helped him wash his hands. This time, his sleeve stayed dry on the first try.
He announced his victory to his mother.
“You’re learning,” she said, looking at me.
I wasn’t sure if she was referring only to the faucet. I decided to take the simplest meaning.
At the door, she kissed me. The kiss was brief because Bento was already pressing the elevator button with the insistence of someone who believed it would arrive faster that way.
“I’ll call you later,” she said.
“I’d like that.”
She smiled and went after her son.
Once the apartment was empty, I picked up a toy car Bento had forgotten near the sofa. I texted Cecília so he’d know where it was, and she said they’d get it on the next visit.
I left the toy car on the low shelf, in plain sight.
I still wanted a home with the two of them. I opened Cecília’s chat to say that again, wrote half a sentence, and stopped. She’d just heard me. I went to put the glasses away.
That night, when she called, I felt like asking if everything was okay between us. Cecília started by telling me about a funny argument she’d had with Marina, and I listened. I put off asking the question; by the time we hung up, I no longer wanted to ask it.