The Whisper of your voice

I still remember the first time I saw Vera. She was with a group of friends on the other side of the room. Beautiful, sensual, with a magnetism that blew my mind.

I approached her because the guys insisted, pushing me in front of her. Tomorrow we celebrate fifteen years of marriage. After my career, it was the best decision I ever made.

We didn't have children. There was always something else that came first: the new house, the car, the trips. Vera loves to travel. We wanted to be one of those couples who fill their lives with work, parties, and sex. We talked little, fucked a lot. And it worked.

She's still just as fucking beautiful. Erotic. She has that poison that disarms me. I get hard when I see her coming out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, her hair dripping over her shoulders, when she walks around in her underwear choosing what to wear. We're not kids anymore, we're in our forties, but seeing her still turns me on just as much.

Although I notice that her desire isn't the same anymore. We don't fuck like we used to. Not as often, nor with the same enthusiasm. Gone are those nights in front of the TV when she would kneel between my legs and suck me off until I was breathless. Now we have more work than sex.

This morning I hardly exchanged a word with her. Just a quick hello before she left for the dentist's office. I had a meeting with the senator to plan the campaign. Agendas, polls, speeches. That's my world: advising politicians, designing strategies, talking to the press. And, when necessary, covering up the shit that shouldn't come to light.

I work with guys who spend their lives talking about values, family, morals. And I'm the one who writes their speeches while they sleep with anyone who smiles at them.

Jenkins, for example. A congressman, fervently Catholic in public. A month ago, he called me at midnight, desperate because he had been photographed entering a hotel with a young woman who could have been his daughter. He asked me to save him. And I did. I solved his problem with a couple of phone calls.

Or Liam, the senator's campaign manager. Another political dinosaur who thinks everything can be solved with a smile and an envelope full of cash. Over lunch, he told me, in great detail, how he fucks the party assistant in the committee bathroom. He looked at me as if he expected me to applaud him.

But I didn't applaud him. I don't give a damn about macho reproductive pretensions. I don't need to hide lovers or find a new ass every week. Vera is enough for me, even though I sometimes feel her drifting away.

It must be that time wears everything down. That there's nothing new left to discover. When things settle down, they start to rot. And you no longer know if it's still love or just habit. Still, it hurt. Still, it made me angry, still, I felt like an idiot. Lucas, the eternal seducer, showed them to me. He also went from bed to bed, from woman to woman. My childhood "friend," one of those you see once every five years at a reunion, but they still hug you as if you ate with them every Friday.

The photos sent in a WhatsApp message:

"Bro, is that your wife?" Son of a bitch, as if I didn't know. They were of her, in a hotel lobby, with a guy. A younger guy. In one, she was laughing; in another, he was whispering something in her ear; and in the last one, he was touching her ass.

"I came with my girlfriend. That's Vera. I slipped the receptionist some cash and he told me they come every Tuesday and Friday."

I was in the middle of a meeting watching my wife, my spouse, walk into a hotel with another man. And then I understood everything: why we weren't having sex like we used to, why she left the clinic early on Tuesdays: to go to yoga, according to her.

And Fridays suited her because they were the senator's sacred days for putting together the week's strategies.

"Spencer, do we need to add anything else?" Liam asked me, bringing me back to reality.

"No, that's it."

"Everything okay?"

"Yes, everything's fine. I have another meeting in twenty minutes. Are we done?"

I wanted to get the hell out of there. Get into an office, break something, get the humiliation out of my system. Instead, I sat there remembering the first time we fucked.

We were 25 years old, with thousands of plans and desires. She told me she was about to graduate from dental school, and I couldn't stop looking at her. We were having coffee on a random corner downtown.

"You're not listening to me, Spencer," she said, smiling, because she knew what was going on inside me.

"Yes, I'm listening," I replied. "But when I do, I imagine you naked."

I confessed without thinking, I couldn't take it anymore. A month of dates, of kisses on the mouth, of groping at her doorstep. Because at that moment I believed she was the woman of my life, that we were going to get married, grow old together, and I didn't want to screw it up. So I waited.

At the hotel, my whole body was throbbing, burning with anticipation. Those open, wet kisses, my member rubbing against her leg, the low sounds she made. And the feeling that we were starting something that would last forever. It drove me crazy.

"I want to fuck you," I murmured as I kissed her neck.

Vera already had her shirt open, one breast exposed, and her skirt up around her waist. When I heard her moan, my desperation mixed with my horniness. That wasn't me, I thought, I calculated, I didn't let myself get carried away. But she changed my mind. I think she realized she was killing me, because the next thing I felt was her fingers slipping into my underwear. My brain went blank.

Her caresses made me even harder, she melted me. It was almost hellish, insane.

I held back for a moment and then got down on my knees to pull down her panties.

"What are you doing?" she asked, dying of embarrassment. She stared at me with her eyes fixed on me.

"It's pink, it's beautiful, Vera. Just like you."

I licked it slowly, then as if it were ice cream. She bit her lip and had to hold my head because her body was convulsing. It was delicious. Torture, fuel that went straight to my member to make it explode into pieces.

We did it on the table, we didn't even make it to the bed. She sat down and I was between her legs. I looked at her and she was beautiful, kissing me passionately, as if she had loved me all her life.

I don't remember how many times I fucked her that night, I couldn't stop. Vera would move or settle down on the bed and I was ready again. She gave herself with everything she had and everything she was.

And I gave her the same, for 15 years.

I made a living pulling rabbits out of a hat, solving problems, devising strategies, and now I had to find one to put up with it or send my marriage to hell.

I play bass with a jazz band. I love it, I enjoy music as if it were a second skin. Always in some club. We arrive, set everything up, and the notes start flowing. We improvise, play classics, and leave with some cash in our pockets.

The bass is my thing. I'm the foundation of everything, the one who keeps the rhythm while the others fly. I like to feel the strings under my fingers, that deep vibration. Sometimes I do walking bass, sometimes I just mark time. But I'm always there, holding it together. When I find the right groove, when everything fits, it's perfect. The music flows and I'm part of it.

I've been with this band for five years, but I still get nervous before going on stage. I walk slowly to the microphone and greet the audience with a smile. Most nights someone asks me to play "Autumn Leaves," without fail. At first it bothered me, but now I even enjoy playing it differently each time. I've gotten into the habit of always carrying an extra pick-or two-because I lose them when I need them most.

We rehearse in the basement of Paul's house, our drummer. It's a small but cozy place. The walls are lined with egg cartons for sound, and there are Blue Note posters everywhere. I like to arrive early, tune up quietly before the others arrive. The old amplifier purrs when I turn it on, like a happy cat. We always stay an extra hour after rehearsal, drinking beer and talking about music until Paul's wife kicks us out.

My grandfather gave me the strap when I started playing in these clubs. It's old, the leather is worn, but I don't want to replace it. Sometimes I feel like it's the only thing I have left of him.

He was the one who taught me, who sat with me many afternoons, with patience and dedication. He was a professional musician, a bohemian, he lived life differently. I miss him very much.

My grandfather died three years ago, but every time I play, I feel like he's there. Sometimes, in the middle of a solo, I hear his voice saying, "Less is more, granddaughter." He was obsessed with rhythm, he made me play scales until my fingers hurt. But thanks to that, today I can play with my eyes closed.

The band is my second family now. Paul, Marco the pianist, and Xavi the saxophonist. We know each other's quirks, we know when someone is nervous or when they're going to improvise something crazy. There's a trust that builds just by playing together, night after night. When one of us shines, we all shine.

Where I haven't been shining lately is in my relationship. Maybe we moved in together too soon. We started with that feeling that everything happens fast because you can't wait. Two years. Last month he asked me to marry him and I said yes. But a wedding is far beyond our means. We don't live badly, but the situation isn't right for spending that much.

"We'll get married when things get better," he would say whenever he sensed me questioning him with my gaze.

"I know, Zachary. I'm in no rush," I would usually reply.

"I know it's what we have to do, but I can never get comfortable with the money situation."

Some nights, when I played, Zachary would show up. He would sit at one of the tables with a drink and do everything but listen to us. He would check his phone, look at other tables, order another beer. At first, I thought he was nervous, that he didn't know how to behave in a place like that. But then I realized that he just wasn't interested. The music didn't mean anything to him.

That hurt me. I didn't need him to be a musician, but I did need him to understand why this was important to me. One night he left before we finished the set. He didn't even say goodbye. Now when I play, I scan the audience looking for him. Sometimes he's there, sometimes he's not. When he's not there, I play better. When he is there, I get distracted thinking about what he's thinking. It's exhausting.

My dad didn't understand either.

He was always like that with me. When I was a kid and practiced scales in my room, he would bang on the wall and yell at me to turn down the volume. "That's not music," he would say. One night I came home from rehearsal and found my amplifier on the sidewalk. That's when I realized that, for him, I had to choose: his house or my music.

I chose music and ended up homeless. For the first few months, I slept in Paul's basement, surrounded by drums and cables. I ate noodles and played until my fingers went numb. It was hard, but for the first time in my life, no one told me to turn down the volume. Paul helped me find a small apartment later on.

Then Zachary came along. And he turned everything upside down. We met at one of those clubs where I played and he went to drink. It was love at first sight. I told my friends it was love at first sight.

"Do you like it, bitch? Do you like how I fuck you, Sabrina?" he always asked me as he growled and penetrated me deeply.

It was like a script or a fantasy he never told me about.

And I would say yes, moaning. Although the truth was that the sex was far from what I liked. But hey, he made up for his super macho image with other things. He still made me come.

"Scream louder," he would ask me. And I would scream.

It wasn't that I was looking for corny stuff. I'm not one of those women who needs candles and soft music. But there was something about his routine, about his dominant male act, that struck me as false. As if he were playing a role he had seen in some porn movie.

He fucked me as if he wanted to impress someone who wasn't there.

And it worked for me physically-that wasn't a lie. He made me come, he satisfied me in that sense. But I was left with the feeling that I was interchangeable to him. That any body would have done, as long as it screamed when he asked it to.

What bothered me wasn't the lack of romance. It was that feeling that he was fucking a fantasy of his, not me.

"Do you like how we make love?" That was another of his prefabricated questions.

And I always answered yes. Because technically it wasn't a lie. But every time he asked me, I realized that he needed that constant confirmation. As if he were evaluating his performance.

One night, after one of those sessions, I lay awake staring at the ceiling. Zachary was snoring contentedly beside me. And I thought, "When was the last time we made love without him directing everything like it was a movie?"

And a bad movie at that. I ended up convincing myself that it was okay, that you can't have everything in life. He was hard-working, he was considerate, he had a lot of shitty aspects, but at least he was there. And I was no "perfect saint" either, I also had that shitty side that not everyone knew how to deal with.

There are women who dream of a Prince Charming, all handsome and chivalrous. Like those wedding cake dolls. I dreamed of something else. When I told Andrea, she laughed: "I want one who spanks me and says, 'Bring me a whiskey, bitch.'" Zachary was far from that. But all the same, it broke me in half. Still, I broke down when that guy showed up at the door.

Talking to that woman blew my mind. It wasn't until I got home that I realized what I had done: behave like a jerk and drag someone else down with me.

I looked him up, found out who he was. It wasn't hard with all the people I knew. They told me he had a sister, where he lived, what he did for a living. They never mentioned her, and I couldn't even remember her name. I didn't even listen to her. Zachary Stewart, 29 years old, single, electrical technician. He worked on large construction projects with contractors. No parents, one sister, 25 years old. I thought it was her, I don't know why. It never crossed my mind to wonder if he was married or had a partner. I was a son of a bitch.

She looked at me standing at the door, in her pajamas, as if I were a lunatic. And maybe at that moment I was crazy.

"Does Zachary Stewart live here?" I asked her as she rubbed her eyes, trying to wake herself up.

"Who are you?"

"Spencer Wildman. I'd like to talk to him."

"Zachary is at work," she said. "He'll be back later. What do you need him for?"

"I need to talk to him about a problem. Who are you?"

"Sabrina."

"Oh, his sister."

His sister? I can't believe how blind I was. How distraught I was that I didn't even realize it.

"What problem do you want to talk to him about?"

She should have slammed the door in my face. "Look..." I hesitated. "Can I come in? I don't want to talk about it in the hallway." And she let me in. A stranger who must have made a good impression because he was well dressed and because it looked like someone had died on me.

I looked at everything with my hands in my pockets.

I looked at her: tangled hair, sleepy face, all the confusion in the world in those green eyes. Pretty, simple, everything Vera wasn't.

Something made me stand still, just watching her. Little by little, she began to get nervous, shifting from one foot to the other, clutching the edge of her pajamas with her hands. Any moment now, she would call the police.

"So, what's going on with Zachary?" she asked me after closing the door.

"His brother sleeps with my wife," I blurted out, without thinking twice.

"Excuse me?"

"His brother is my wife's lover."

She froze. She was petrified.

"I don't understand," she shook her head.

"His brother sleeps with my wife."

How stupid, I repeated it again, slowly, as if she were dumb.

"Look, I think..."

"Vera. Her name is Vera," I cut her off.

"I don't know any Vera, I've never heard her name."

It was confusing, unreal, as if I were trying to say something and there was a lot of background noise distracting me.

"Tuesdays and Fridays are the days they see each other," I continued. "At the same hotel, at the same time."

"I think you've got the wrong person," she said. Yes, later I too wished I had got the wrong person. "You should..."

"Look," I interrupted her, showing her the phone. "It's him, isn't it?"

She took the phone and looked. And yes, it was him. Standing at a reception desk with a blonde woman, just as elegant, my wife. From the way her eyes widened in surprise, I knew I wasn't wrong.

Still, I was waiting for her to confirm it. I swiped the screen and showed her more photos. She stared for a long time at the one where Zachary was grabbing her butt.

"Yes, it's Zachary... How long has this been going on?"

"I don't know."

"And why did you come looking for him?"

"I don't know either. To see him up close, to talk to him. So his brother could explain to me what to do with 15 years of marriage."

She sat down on an armchair, collapsed onto it. She looked me in the face and started crying, just like that.

"He's not my brother," she said.

"What do you mean he's not your brother?"

"No," she cried louder. "He's my fiancé, my boyfriend. We've been together for three years."

"Shit."

I stood motionless. Her hands trembled as she wiped her face. Poor woman. She must have been the same age as him. You could tell how young she was, and I had knocked on her door to shatter her dreams. She had a simple ring on her finger, a silver wedding band perhaps, nothing expensive.

"I'd better go," I said, not knowing where to hide.

"Now you're going to leave after ruining my life?"

"Look, I didn't know..."

"I didn't know either!" she cried. "You come to my house to tell me that my boyfriend is sleeping with your wife as if it were nothing."

"Do you think it's easy for me?" I raised my voice. "Today is our fifteenth wedding anniversary, and that bitch is going to be waiting for me in lace lingerie, like she does every year."

How pathetic, complaining about infidelity like a little girl who had her doll taken away. It was that shit pressing on my chest, that voice in my head screaming that I was an idiot.

"If you're going to smash his face in, he'll be here in about an hour," he said, standing up with red cheeks.

"I'm not going to break his face."

"Then what? Did you come here to meet him, to sit down and talk about how you both sleep with the same woman?" he asked me with all the anger in the world. Since I was already there and had come up with the "news," I might as well eat the shit too.

"I told you I don't know..."

"What don't you know? Didn't you see the photos? Didn't you just tell me the days they see each other and where?"

I felt worse, because she was right. Because the logical thing would have been to beat him up, and yet I didn't even want to do that.

"I can't afford to beat up some piece of trash and end up in jail because my wife turned out to be a whore," I said, my voice thick with rage.

That face turned my stomach. I reached out and gave her my handkerchief. We were two stupid people, two people who had been cheated on, looking at each other's faces. I had lost control over something I didn't even know if I still cared about.

Me in a suit, her in her pajamas, and in two minutes we lost everything.