Page 91 of For his Surrender

“And what’s your favorite movie?” I look at the paper in my hands out of mere formality, because I’m sure that question isn’t on the list.It’s dawn again, and Marcos and I are sitting in the kitchen.

This has become routine.It’s annoying and tasty to the same extent as his presence seems to be attracted to me being out of bed.It is enough that I leave my room for whatever reason so that, seconds later, Marcos appears in the same room of the house I am in.

I have even wondered if these encounters really are accidental, or if he would not be making a stakeout with his ear stuck to the door of his room just waiting for me to leave.

But that’s absurd, I know.If there is anyone responsible, or rather irresponsible, for these nocturnal meetings, it is not Marcos, but the universe, which seems to like to play with fire.After all, their result is always the same: short conversations, excessive glances and then an unworthy escape.

Today I am almost sure that yes, he was on the stakeout waiting for me to leave the room, because, a few minutes later, not only did he appear, as always, half-naked, but he brought with him the list of questions from the interview he sent me by email this afternoon.

His justification?He lost sleep and decided to answer them down here while eating something.The curious thing? We’ve been here over forty minutes and he hasn’t even looked for a cookie.

I shake my head, denying it.How bald face can his face be?And why does he think talking about trivia is a good idea?And why did this effort warm my stomach?And why do I want to give a different answer than a non-summary?And why can’t I want to give that different answer?

“That’s not on the list…” I answer, not for the first or second time, since this must be the tenth time he tries to deflect the questions on the list to others who would be interesting if we were friends or a couple, except that we are neither, and that needs to continue just like that,even if Marcos keeps doing all the right things.

In the past three days, more of Marcos’ interactions with Isabella have taken place.He had dinner with us every night, even watching the movie of the princess and the dragon.And someone needs to tell him to stop it.

I can’t stop wondering why all this is happening.It’s a lot of effort just to have sex with me, and even if I hate to acknowledge it, I no longer believe that Marcos would be able, for example, to engage with my daughter just to make our lie more believable or to get me into bed.

So why?

Why has he been coming home early, instead of, as he told me he would, continuing to lead his single life?Why does he not only treat my daughter well, but every day brings her some gift, even if it’s just a candy?

Why is it that practically every night he meets me in the kitchen at dawn, if only so that we can exchange only agood nightand a shameless scrutiny of each other’s bodies?Why does he keep acting like a Marcos from whom, every day, it becomes harder to want to run away?

Because maybe running away isn’t exactly a necessity...

“But she can decide to change the script, she can ask what we both like to do together...” she replies with the baldest face in the world.

“Oh, sure! And you’re gonna say it’s watching The Devil Wears Prada[5]with me?”

“Really, Antonella? Runway[6]? "I raise my eyebrows, surprised, not only to the disgust in his voice, but also to the one on his face.

“Well, well… Looks like we have a Miranda Priestly[7]fan here... I tilt my head to the side and watch him amused.

“I’m a Meryl Streep[8]fan, that woman is nominated for an Oscar every year for a reason, but it’s definitely not the difference between sky blue and turquoise blue...” he comments, discontented, and steals a potato chip from the bag I have opened on the table.I slap his hand, but he’s faster and shoves it in his mouth.

“First, stay away from my chips!If you want one, the pantry is full of them!” warning, with my finger up, and, if the smile on his face tells me anything, it’s that he really does not care how many bags of chips there are in the pantry, he will eat mine. Urgh! “And then, oh, my God! You were really paying attention!” I speak much louder than necessary, impacted by the finding, and I put my hands to my mouth, shocked.

“If Meryl says it, I hear it,” he says, as if it were no big deal.

“Oh, my God!” I repeat the exclamation already made and shake my head, still incredulous, but now also very curious.

“Alright! And what is your favorite movie, Francis Coppola’s[9]disciple?” As soon as I say the name, I smile, because the answer to the question shines in my mind impossible to ignore. “Don’t tell me! I want to guess! The Godfather?”

“You’re good…”

“And you couldn’t be more obvious...” Marcos takes his hand to his chest as if I had hit him in the heart.He grimaces in pain and I dismiss his dramatization with a wave of my hand and a smile.

“Ok! And what do we most like to do together?” I go back to the original question and he smiles immensely, saying, without a word, what would be his ideal answer, “Yea, sure Marcos! Let’s print in the most read magazine by the traditional Brazilian elite the word fuck, why not?” My answer makes him laugh and I appreciate it, because that means the shudder in my body, caused by the simple idea of fucking him again, went unnoticed.

“Your words, not mine…” I pout with my lips and shake my head from side to side.

“Sure... Even if you had used vowels and consonants, you couldn’t have been more explicit... Or obvious...” He bites his lip and his gaze travels away; I don’t need to be any genius to know where he went.

“Okay, time to go” I say goodbye, getting up, “It was a good rehearsal...You were right, after all...” My body moves practically by itself.My brain has activated the anti-Marcos defense mode and its best strategy is to flee. Run.

Get out of this man’s presence as soon as possible before the smokescreen I spend all my time feeding through sour words, dismissive comments, eyes rolled disappears and he realizes he’s not the only one who wants more of what we had on that island.

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