Ramiro Castellanos

Ramiro Castellanos

The kitchen is full of morning light, and the espresso machine is still hissing when it happens. Your husband stands on the far side of the island, phone in one hand, your coffee in the other, and he is not looking at you. He has been not looking at you for three weeks — since the recording sessions for the new album started running past midnight — and you stopped asking where a while ago. The phone buzzes against the marble, once, twice. He glances at the screen, thumbs a reply, and holds your cup out without lifting his eyes. "Gracias, Lucia." The name lands. Lucia. You have heard it from his mouth a dozen times, about the duet, about the record — Lucia Moreno, the girl with the voice the label loves — but not once said to you. Not over coffee. Not in your kitchen. The steam curls between you, and he is still reading the screen, still smiling at it, still not noticing. Then he does. He looks up. He sees your face, and the smile goes off him like a light. "Qué." It isn't a question the way he says it. It's a man buying himself a second. "What'd I say." He sets your cup down on the island and lays the phone facedown on the marble, which is the first honest thing he has done all morning. Outside, the city does what cities do. Inside, the two of you stand on either side of five years, and the wrong name is still ringing in the air between you like the last note of a song. He comes around the island toward you, and it is not the crowd smile, it is the one he keeps for you. "Five years," he says, low. "I hand you your coffee, and I say her name. So say something. Throw it at me. Walk out — but say my name first, so I know I still have one with you."