Blue and black the neon flickered across the street. Tremulous blue, then black with the ghostly outline of the letters composing the establishment's name. From time to time, some letters would faint amid the blue flash. Kiss Club... Kiss Club... K ss Club... Kiss Club... K ss Cl b... With the cell phone clutched in her hand, Marisa stared at the neon sign, immobile like a waxen statue. She heard Marco saying goodbye to the waitress and quickly returned the phone to the table. In a few instants, Marco sauntered out the bar with a carefree Sunday demeanor: confident strides, loose arms, a smirk—the alpha male in leisure mode, as Marisa noted sourly.

"Shall we go then?" He grabbed the cell phone and, noticing her insistent gaze, worried: "Everything okay? You look pale."

"It's nothing."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." She shrugged and stood up. Her brain was spinning and spinning and spinning.

Marco put his arm around her shoulders and they went for a promenade in a nearby square, where a flower market was open until late. On a sudden he halted. He turned to Marisa, ran one hand on her hair and contemplated her in silence, sensing her turmoil. His eyes were serious under the thick cape of eyelashes, and when they narrowed like that they acquired an almond shape, an almost invisible crease on the corner while another, deeper, appeared between the brows—a small gash on the serenity of his forehead. His jaw first clenched, then his mouth half-opened to say something to her. Without being aware Marisa stilled her breath, and waited. The words never came.

Marco blocked the lamppost light, bathing her face in shadow and her lips in kisses. Soft, brief. Until he threaded his fingers in her hair and lingered to explore her mouth with an intimacy that made Marisa melt. The kiss always soft but now slow in each recess, on the tip of the tongue and further in. She kept reluctant hands on his shoulders, while he pressed the small of her back and brought her closer. The breeze surrounded them with the scent of flowers, and from an apartment window crept a drowsy song from the fifties in the voice of Ruth Brown: she was asking if she should let herself go in his direction... was his love strong enough for her own protection? And the chorus replied: I don't know, I don't know... I don't know, I don't know...

Marisa extricated herself from Marco's arms, feigning interest in the roses and keeping tabs on him from the corner of her eye. For a moment they admired the arrangements on the shelves of half a dozen booths along the sidewalk. Flowers with all colors of the day, from gold at dawn to blood at dusk. Flowers as blue as the wings of a bird tinted by the night. On an impulse, Marco picked up a bouquet of red roses. They were Colombian, larger and more fragrant than ordinary roses. With no thorns.

"Do you like them, Mari?"

"Very pretty."

"They're for you."

Marisa hesitated and shook her head as her disquiet increased. Why that whim now? Marco had never given her flowers precisely because they were impossible to hide. Maybe he felt guilty and was trying to relieve his own conscience. Maybe.

"Thanks, but my mom will get suspicious if I show up with them."

"You can leave them in my apartment. They'll always be yours."

"Will they?"

"Of course." He half-smiled, frowning.

"Better not."

'Why?"

"They're gonna wither, that's why," Marisa replied curtly.

Taken aback by her tone, Marco returned the flowers to the stand with a gesture of frustration. He studied her face, reaching for her hand. Marisa retreated rigidly, unable to hinder her thoughts.

"We've never discussed our situation," she blurted out, and her voice sounded so sharp he lifted one eyebrow.

"True. I've never got involved with a student before and admit sometimes I'm confused with the whole thing."

"Why confused?"

"Because, strictly speaking, I should have never—"

The sentence hovered incomplete as Marco sidestepped to make way for a couple approaching on the sidewalk. He waited for them to move away and, when he turned his attention back to Marisa, he found a pair of somber eyes.

"You should have never done what, Marco?"

"I'm your teacher, Mari. I'm more experienced and, in my position, I can't afford to be irresponsible." He sighed, improvising a tired smile. "I couldn't have afforded, but now the damage is already done."

"I didn't know you regarded our relationship as damage."

"That's not what I meant—"

Wasn't it, really? And, here, Marisa emptied her chest of the suspicion consuming her. Maybe Marco would rather be with a woman his own age, someone with more experience and less problems at home. Maybe even Camila. How could she be sure he wasn't seeing the other girl? There was plenty of opportunity for that, Camila was attractive, interested, available... Marisa tightened her arms across her chest to hide a tremor. She waited for him to speak out—to say anything, anything that would appease her.

Marco remained quiet, in search of words. Until now, he hadn't mapped the consequences. When doubt or insecurity rose, he closed his eyes. But reality was sinking in and he needed to face it... While he followed the rugged topography of his musings, something Marisa said diverted him. He frowned.

"Camila? What's with her?"

"I'm not blind, Marco. I see you together at school. I saw when you were chatting on the corner and you handed her some papers. Yesterday she gave you a ridiculously expensive box of chocolate. And she emails too. I saw it in your cell phone," Marisa retorted in an accusatory tone, which sparked a furious glare from Marco.

"So that's it." He paused. "I can't believe you've spied on me."

"Are you seeing her?"

Marisa sustained her gaze and waited for an answer with ambivalent expectation. Fear and hope. Because there was no denying the email in his cell phone and Marisa needed to know. Because she wanted to believe there was a plausible explanation for that message in the middle of the night...

But which explanation?

She thought of the messages she had exchanged with Marco in the beginning and of the text he gave her and of the smile that came with it. She remembered how exhilarated she was with the first message and the first kiss, remembered the happiness she felt every time she was around Marco. Would that all be a mistake? Marisa looked at him trying to decipher his face. Maybe he wasn't who he appeared to be. She imagined him saying to Camila the same words he had said to her, and panicked because the world as she knew it might not exist. When would she learn? It was no use believing what people said. The only thing that mattered was their actions.

A few feet away, the owner of a stand looked from one to the other, until Marco glanced at him with such anger he bowed his head and fussed with a bunch of tulips. Marco tightened his lips and, for a moment, said nothing. His face reddened as he shook his head. A lock of hair rolled onto his forehead. He did not take notice of it.

"I expected more from you, Marisa. What you did was low. Your question doesn't even deserve an answer."

"That's how it is?"

"If you don't trust me, we're on for a very bad start, as I don't accept that kind of behavior. You should be ashamed to follow me and search my things."

"It seems we've started on a bad foot indeed." She pointed one finger at him. "You refuse to answer a simple question and then make accusations so you can steer away from the subject. Do you think I don't get it? Sergio used to play this game to make me feel guilty whereas in reality he was the one cheating on me. Don't they say attack is the best defense? Well, that no longer works with me."

"I am not Sergio," Marco retorted with barely restrained exacerbation.

"Then answer me."

Marco's expression and voice became harsher at each word he spilled out:

"I won't answer because it's useless, Marisa. Did I ever doubt you? The simple fact that you asked me such question is proof of your lack of trust. If I answer no, will it change a thing? Tomorrow you'll find another message, another box of chocolate, and if it's not chocolate it's gonna be something else, then we'll have this conversation again. And over and over again."

"Oh, so you admit there will be other messages and more chocolate," she jumped ahead with sarcasm. "There's my answer, right?"

"Listen—"

Once again he silenced to wait for a pedestrian to pass by. This time, a man in a white shirt with hair covered in gel, slowing down to check them out. Marco shoved both hands in his pockets and stood impatiently as the man distanced himself. He then gesticulated, making an effort to keep it down.

"Listen, have you ever heard me mention Camila's name?" His voice, a coarse whisper, grew louder. "I never refer to her. Doesn't it tell you something? I couldn't care less for that girl."

"Is that so? Maybe you don't mention her precisely to avoid suspicion. You're dating me, why wouldn't you date Edible too?"

"Edible?" He was disconcerted.

"Camila, Edible, whatever. While I kill myself studying, she doesn't mind idling and has all the time in the world to jump into your bed. Not to mention her mother doesn't cause half the trouble mine causes. Such arrangement is quite convenient, isn't it?"

Now Marco's eyes shot sparks. Only the eyes. Under the street lamp, his face was a frigid mask in chiaroscuro. It was like an image drawn with angry charcoal lines. Marisa could no longer reach him. It was odd, she thought, how relationships could be so fragile. One moment you were in someone's arms sharing your heartbeat. The next, all that remained was distance. And a track of words lost in translation.

The breeze dragged away a brochure fallen on the sidewalk. It was for one of the stands, with a colorful close-up photo of a variety of flowers. The intermittent murmur of paper rasping on the cement lasted until the brochure rolled to the curb. There it fluttered by the mouth of a manhole. One more instant, and it vanished.

"I have no control over your thoughts, your suspicion, your jealousy, Marisa. We can talk and be okay today, but it'll be just a temporary fix, because your lack of trust will manifest sooner or later. Do you recall Sartre? If that's what you choose to believe, there's nothing I can do about it," he reasoned in a sharp tone.

"Don't you drag Sartre into this!"

"Are you going to make a scene now? Is that your next move?"

She was about to protest, however Marco ignored her and averted his face, looking fixedly at a light sign across the street. He remained still while his indignation imploded in locked fists. Marisa felt a dagger was being thrust into her heart and twisted with impassible meticulousness. She didn't recognize Marco. As in a diorama, light shifted to reveal shadows in the cheerful colors of the canvas. Where was the man with tender gaze who comforted her, where the smile that welcomed her?

The sidewalk under her feet seemed to crack, a sudden web of fine veins that branched throughout the cement, veins dilating in all directions and her in the center, pieces of ground breaking and sinking down. And her in the center. The sidewalk on the verge of swallowing her just like the manhole had swallowed the brochure. She couldn't believe it. A minute ago the two of them were laughing together in a fifth-rate bar. There was love in the laughter, joy in the plastic flowers. Love and joy made of plastic—was her mistake that farfetched?

Marisa made an effort to keep standing. She was dizzy. Intoxicated with pain.

"Do you really have nothing else to say to me, Marco?" Her voice sounded like broken glass.

"No, Marisa. Right now I have no wish to speak with you." His tore the air.

"The truth is, it doesn't make any difference, does it? I'm only a pastime. I should have realized it sooner. But, as you said, I'm not as experienced as you. Goodbye, Marco."

Marisa spun on her heels and moved away, a splash of flowery dress waning amid the trees in the square, and farther away down the street. Marco—his eyes immersed in the light sign—did not move.

___________________________________________________________

I dare you to guess what happens next, so stay tuned!

Votes and comments are welcomed :-)