“I’m not alone. I’ve got pizza, a real storm, and too many memories. I’ll survive.”
She sends the message and turns off the TV. The living room is left in semi-darkness, lit only by the occasional flashes of lightning streaking across the sky. She gets up, walks to the window, and stands there watching what lies beyond the glass.
The city fades behind the curtain of rain. And, for the first time in a long time, Rebeca feels that the knot she’s carried in her chest for years is slowly beginning to give way to other kinds of feelings.
She doesn’t know if that’s good or bad.
She only knows that she no longer wants to keep running away.
And that, perhaps, the next time she runs into Martina on the landing, she won’t close the door so quickly. A next time that arrives just a few seconds later.
Chapter 10
“Who could it be?”
What at first seemed like a passing shower has now turned into a veritable deluge, with gusts of wind shaking the trees on the street and making the window frames rattle slightly. The sky has darkened until it’s almost night, and every clap of thunder rumbles with a violence that seems to want to burst into the apartment.
Rebeca wipes her lips with a napkin, leaves the half-eaten slice of pizza on the plate, and gets up from the sofa. The doorbell rings again, this time more insistently, as if whoever is on the other side knows she’s heard it.
She walks toward the door with a sense of unease. She isn’t expecting anyone, and at this time of the afternoon, it also seems unlikely that a neighbor would decide to drop by unannounced. The storm roars on the other side of the door like an impatient animal, so without giving it much thought, she turns the knob and opens the door.
The sight that greets her on the other side leaves her completely frozen.
Martina is standing in front of her, completely soaked. Water is running down her dark hair, clinging to her temples and neck, and the jacket she’s wearing seems to weigh twice as much from the accumulated rain. Her eyelashes are damp, anddrops continue to slide down her jaw as she breathes with a certain agitation, as if she’d just run the last few meters. The cold has reddened her cheeks and lips, and she’s hugging herself to stop from shivering.
For a moment that feels far too long, neither of them can speak, until Martina breaks the silence.
“I left my keys behind,” Martina says, stumbling a bit over her words. “And Julia isn’t home. I didn’t know what to do with all this rain.”
Rebeca keeps staring at her without reacting. She watches as water drips from the hem of her clothes onto the landing, forming small puddles on the tiles. Martina’s hair has clung to her neck in an almost hypnotic way, tracing the delicate curve of her skin.
The scene is so unexpected that it takes her mind a few seconds to kick into gear, just as she sees a small puddle beginning to form around Martina’s feet. And that small detail is what finally snaps her out of her reverie.
“Come in, come in,” Rebeca says, stepping quickly away from the door. “You’re going to soak the whole landing.”
Martina enters somewhat awkwardly, closing the door behind her as she shakes her jacket lightly, water splashing onto the entryway floor.
“I’ll get you a towel,” Rebeca adds almost immediately.
And she disappears down the hallway before Martina can reply.
Her heart is beating too fast as she crosses the bedroom. She opens the closet, moving several hangers aside until she finds a large towel. Her hands move with a certain urgency, buther mind keeps replaying in slow motion what she has seen before her. She remains transfixed by the image of Martina, soaked to the bone. By the way her eyes sought hers with relief. By the absurd intensity she felt when she saw her appear so unexpectedly.
When she returns to the living room, Martina is still exactly where she left her. Between the entryway and the living room, as if she hadn’t wanted to go any further without permission. The warm light from the living room illuminates the scene in an almost intimate way. The floor of the entryway already shows several wet spots where Martina has let the water drip from her clothes.
Rebeca approaches and hands her the towel.
“Thank you…” Martina says with a sigh.
She begins to dry her hair with slow movements, running the towel over her head while tilting her face slightly forward. Water drips from the ends and slides down her neck, tracing shiny trails across her skin.
At that moment, a clap of thunder shakes the sky with sudden violence, and the two look up at the same time.
“Oh my God…” murmurs Rebeca, looking toward the living room window. “The Great Flood.” The rain pounds against the glass with almost savage intensity. “And to think that when I checked the news before moving, they said it was going to be a warmer-than-usual spring,” she adds, trying to break the tension of the moment.
Martina lets out a small laugh, the towel still draped over her shoulders.
The two watch the storm for a few seconds.
