“You must be spending a lot of time on this,” Rebeca muses.
“Actually, I am,” Martina says. “I spend quite a bit of time talking to the people who work there. Listening to how they describe their routine, how they relate to the space. Then I try to capture that moment when the place stops being a setting and becomes something human.”
Julia watches them with interest as she takes a sip of wine.
“Martina has always had a lot of patience for that,” she comments with a smile. “She can spend hours waiting for the right light. Do you remember that time she stayed at the market all afternoon just to photograph a fishmonger who’d been there for decades?”
Martina shrugs slightly, but a faint smile plays on her lips.
“Light is part of the story,” she says casually, giving her wife a loving look. “Sometimes it completely changes the way a person relates to their surroundings. A ray of light coming through a window can make a wrinkle on the forehead seem deeper, or make an eye shine in a different way.”
Rebeca nods slowly.
“I’ve always liked the way you talk about your work,” she says, and the comment comes with a naturalness that surprises even her.
Martina holds her gaze. For a moment, they aren’t in the living room of her house, Julia isn’t sitting next to her, and six years haven’t passed since the last time they spoke like this. For a moment, everything seems strangely familiar. The warmth of the wine in her throat, the smell of the lasagna she’s cooked herself, the way Rebeca bites her lower lip while she thinks. Everything conspires to let the memory slip in without permission.
*
Six years ago. Flashback.
Years ago, in another apartment and another city, Martina was sitting in front of her laptop, reviewing the photos from a recent photo essay. The afternoon light streamed in through the studio window, casting a golden glow over the screen.
Rebeca was beside her, leaning slightly forward to look at the images more closely.
“This one works really well,” she said, pointing to one of the photos.
Martina frowned in slight disagreement.
“I’m not convinced.”
“Why?”
Martina zoomed in on the image.
“Because the man’s expression doesn’t really tell me anything. Don’t you think?”
Rebeca was silent for a moment.
Then she pointed to another photograph.
“And this one?”
Martina looked at it. The scene showed the same man working in silence, his hands stained with ink and his gaze focused on what he was doing. There was something about that image. Something Martina hadn’t seen at first.
“Well, it’s actually much better,” she admitted. “I like more natural photos, when it doesn’t look like everything is posed.”
“And I love you.”
At that moment, Rebeca held her gaze—a proud look she could never hide.
Martina couldn’t say who moved first, or at what moment the space between them vanished. She only remembered the feeling of closeness. And the way the rest of the world ceased to exist while she was by her side.
Rebeca kissed her. Her lips parted instantly, and Rebeca’s tongue slipped inside with a determination that made Martina let out a hoarse moan against her mouth. The laptop was forgotten; the photographs, the reviews—everything evaporated when her girl pushed her back against the chair’s backrest.
Martina pulled her in by the waist, digging her fingers into the fabric of her T-shirt. Rebeca straddled her without breaking the kiss, and the weight of her hips against her lap ignited a fire that Martina could no longer—and no longer wanted to—put out. Her hands slid up Rebeca’s back, pulling her clothes upward until her skin was exposed, marked by the slight shiver those fingers sent through her.
“Damn it, Rebeca…” Martina murmured against her lips.
