The taxi pulls into traffic.
And your marriage enters a place it may never return from.
You drive carefully, almost too carefully, because your whole body is split between tasks it was never meant to handle at once. One part of you watches the road. One part watches the rearview mirror without appearing to. One part listens for clues in the tiny sounds people make when they think they’re alone. The sigh. The purse unzipping. The text being typed. The call being placed. The private face that comes out when performance is no longer needed.
Catarina takes out her phone.
Your heart slams once, hard.
She doesn’t text.
Instead she stares at the screen for a long moment, then locks it again and leans her head back against the seat. There is something wrong with her expression. Not guilt. You were prepared for guilt, or excitement, or the careful glow of a woman on her way to another man. This is different. She looks tired. Not physically. Soul tired. The kind of tired that expensive skincare cannot touch.
The rain thickens.
Traffic slows.
For several blocks, neither of you speaks.
