The words come out of Rebeca’s mouth in a tense whisper, as if each word had to fight its way through a whirlwind of emotions she can barely control. The sound of the music and the hubbub of the bar surround them with equal intensity, mingling with the murmur of conversation, but in that small space they occupy in front of the bar, a sort of bubble seems to have formed that no one else can penetrate. The gin and tonic forgotten in Rebeca’s hand trembles slightly.
Martina watches her without looking away. She is aware that they are not alone. That a few feet away, the group continues to talk, wondering what is going on between them. But at this moment, all of that loses its importance. Because in front of her is Rebeca. And the way she looks at her—with eyes darkened by the amber light, lips parted, and a slight tremor in her jaw—makes her pulse race until it becomes a runaway drumbeat that plays a delightful melody. The melody of love that has not faded between them.
“I’m sure.”
Martina lowers her head slightly, and a small, almost incredulous smile forms on her lips. She brings the glass to her lips and downs the contents in a single gulp. The ice clinks softly against the glass as she sets it down on the bar. For a second, itseems as though she’s about to say something else, but instead she reaches out her hand. Her fingers wrap around Rebeca’s wrist with a firmness that brooks no argument.
“Come with me.”
The reaction is immediate.
“Are you crazy?”
Rebeca pulls back slightly, surprised by the sudden gesture. Her pulse races beneath Martina’s fingers, betraying her completely.
“Martina, please…”
However, her resistance isn’t as firm as her words would have us believe. Martina notices it instantly. She senses it in the way her fingers don’t truly tense to break free, in the way her steps end up following her as she begins to walk toward the exit. Because she’s very clear that she isn’t wrong. Not about what happened that night. Not about what still exists between them, throbbing beneath the skin like a wound that refuses to heal.
The air from the street envelops them as soon as they step through the door. The contrast with the interior of the bar is immediate. The night has cooled, and a damp breeze, laden with the scent of the nearby sea, sweeps through the nearly empty street. The pavement glistens under the streetlights, casting shadows that merge with their own.
“Martina, this is crazy. We can’t…” Rebeca protests again.
But Martina has already made up her mind. She walks a few steps past the bar’s façade, rounds the corner, and enters the small alleyway that opens up behind the establishment. It’s a narrow space, barely lit by a distant streetlight that casts elongated shadows against the brick walls. The echo of themusic reaches them muffled, as if from another world. She stops abruptly. And then she turns.
The movement is quick. Before Rebeca can fully react, Martina gently pushes her against the wall, places both hands on either side of her neck against the cold wall, and creates a sort of silent cage where Rebeca’s body is trapped between her arms. The distance between them shrinks to a few centimeters. Martina can feel her rapid breathing, the slight tremor running through her chest, the heat emanating from her skin through her clothes.
“I want you to tell me the truth,” Martina says, without looking away.
The dim light from the streetlamp casts soft shadows on Rebeca’s face. Her eyes seem darker than usual, almost black, and Martina doesn’t move an inch.
“What did it mean to you?”
Rebeca swallows. Martina sees it clearly: the movement of her throat, the tension running through her expression, the way her fingers slowly clench the fabric of her own jacket. For a second, she thinks she can hear her heartbeat—though Martina isn’t quite sure if it’s her own or Rebeca’s. Maybe both. But what she really wants isn’t to guess. She wants to hear it. She wants her to answer her question.
However, when Rebeca speaks, the words that come out of her mouth aren’t the ones Martina expected.
“And what does it matter what I feel, Martina?”
The reproach comes so quickly that the impact is immediate.
“What does it matter what I’ve felt all these years if you walked out on me as if we were nothing?”
Martina feels the blow in the center of her chest. It’s a real physical sensation, as if someone had pressed hard right between her ribs. Regret comes almost at the same time as the pain.
“You said yourself that you couldn’t forgive me,” Martina replies, unable to keep her voice from taking on a harsher tone. “Have you forgotten that too?”
Her eyes shine with a mixture of frustration and sadness, and she almost smiles before continuing. She pauses briefly, for a few seconds during which she thinks she’ll be able to breathe clearly. Though what she achieves is practically the opposite.
“You told me I’d always cared more about my career than you. When you know perfectly well that was never true.”
Rebeca shakes her head, though she doesn’t step back. Her hands remain pressed against the wall at the height of her hips.
“I don’t want us to hurt each other anymore, Martina.”
Her words sound weary, almost defeated.
“Because it’s clear that this…”
