Alexandre Xavier

My days were becoming increasingly full.

I still thought about everything — the morning at the hospital, the afternoon lecture, the evening seminar.

I got home late at night, but it was the silence that hit me first. A silence that wasn’t peace — it was a warning. A premonition, a subtle sign that something was about to happen. A dense kind of emptiness, spreading through the hallway like fog before a storm. I climbed the stairs slowly, feeling the weight of the day piling on my shoulders. The briefcase slipping from my hand, my blazer already wrinkled from the constant on and off, or perhaps just from being there, waiting.

It was past eleven. I had said I wouldn’t come home right after the lecture, that I might stop by the hospital. Maria Clara didn’t need to wait up, but the event ended early, and the rain changed my plans that night. Our days had been busy, hectic. What was once a promise of a peaceful life, of rest, was slowly fading into endless work.

Upstairs was dark, except for the sliver of light coming from our bedroom. The door slightly ajar — I hesitated. I felt exhausted. Simple, routine things no longer felt light. With age, everything weighs more.

“Oh, so good!” a woman’s voice, between moans, pierced through the door like a blade.

A gasp. Another. The sound was wet, muffled, intimate.

At first, I was confused.

The second moment — I doubted.

“Ride it… that’s it, sexy, go on, go on, yeah… Ahhhh!”  A man’s voice, between whispers and grunts I had never heard before, struck me.

There, in that familiar hallway, my pulse surged.

A strange heat flushed through my face.

My hand gripped the doorknob.

Without thinking, I pushed the already open door.

The scene exploded in front of me.

Bodies moved in my bed, completely immersed in darkness.

My wife straddling another man.

Her disheveled brown hair stuck to her sweaty forehead.

Her bare back outlining curves that used to be mine.

The lilac sheet slipping down, revealing what I never imagined I’d see: her breasts heaving, exposed; her lips parted in ecstasy that no longer belonged to me.

They moved together, carried by the rhythm of betrayal. Until the sound of the door slamming interrupted everything, and as I stood there, witnessing it all, I swallowed the pain, the weight of the betrayal, my hands shaking, my body sweating, despite the light rain falling outside.

She turned her face, her eyes met mine, and froze. The man, dark-skinned, younger—perhaps about ten years younger than me—muscles bulging, curly hair, gasped in shock. He pushed her aside and then sat on the bed, trying to grab his pants from the floor, but their nudity was already etched in my memory.

"Maria Clara?" My voice came out hoarse with anger, choked.

My voice was low, rough, as if it were tearing my throat. The sheet rushed up, but it was already too late. Her body, even covered, screamed lust. The reddened skin. Now on all fours on the bed, trying to compose herself. The guilt stamped on her face as if it had been carved with fire.

"Xande... I..." She tried to speak, but there were no excuses. No words fit in that space.

I looked at her and couldn’t recognize her. The woman I shared my life with, my bed, my dreams... now exposed, surrendered to another, in the place that was mine.

"In our bed?" It was all I could say.

The question slipped out before I could contain it. It wasn’t just anger. It was shock. Incredulity.

The man lowered his head, trying to dress hurriedly. The smell in the room was different. Humidity, sweat, women’s perfume mixed with cologne. A bittersweet and vulgar blend.

"You’re never here!" she exploded, her eyes filling with tears. "Never! When you are, it’s just the hospital, shifts, surgery, thesis, conferences, articles! You left me alone for years, Alexandre!"

 

She said my name as if it were an accusation.

"Does this justify... this?" I gestured, not knowing where to fix my gaze. On the fallen sheets? On her fingers still marked by pleasure? "I thought we were in this together. That we knew the costs. You knew who you married."

She laughed. A short, acidic laugh.

"I married a man in love with his white coat. Who saves the whole world but left me dying slowly. You didn’t touch me anymore, Xande. I felt invisible."

That wasn’t true, I had tried the night before, and she said she had a headache. "And you decided to show yourself to another? In our bed?"

My voice failed me. Then came the nausea. A dull queasiness. Disgust. Pity. Frustration.

"This changes everything, Clara." It was clear it changed everything, all her refusals, her excessive work hours.

"It’s been changing for a long time. You just didn’t notice." She shouted as the realization hit.

The silence fell again. But this time, it wasn’t dense. It was final.

I grabbed my jacket. I didn’t look back. The sound of her footsteps, the murmur of the other man, the muffled sighs, the sheets... all turned into distant noise. They argued with each other when I left.

I descended as if the steps belonged to another world. A universe that was no longer mine.

The house... the house I built... now was just the place where I was betrayed.

Outside, the rain was falling, the air was humid. I breathed as if I were searching for a piece of myself.

 

                                                                       ****

 

The bar was almost empty, only the sound of the TV in the background and the occasional clink of glasses at the counter. That place, forgotten by the city, was Heitor’s silent refuge. Whenever life threatened to collapse, he would bring me here. Today, it was my turn to fall apart.

The ice in my glass swirled slowly. As if that whiskey could numb me. As if it had the power to erase the image still burning in my retinas. Clara. Another man. The sheet that would never again be just ours.

"Clara’s with someone else. And it’s not new," I said bluntly, without filter. My voice was low, filled with shame. "From the way their bodies fit together... that wasn’t new. It was intimate. Familiar."

Heitor lowered his eyes. His silence was more respectful than any comforting words.

"Sorry, man. I don’t even know what to say to you."

"Funny..." I gave a slight, humorless laugh. "When you’re in the middle of the storm, you don’t realize how much water the boat’s already taking on."

He nodded. As if he already knew, but refused to be the messenger.

"And you still love her?"

The question hung in the air, reverberating between the kitchen smoke and the bittersweet smell of cheap alcohol. Love. It seemed like a difficult word now.

"I loved what we were once," I answered, staring into the amber of my glass. "The rest became an act. She’s right. I hid behind medicine, buried myself in shifts, conferences, classes..." I took a sip. "But it wasn’t out of ego. I thought I was protecting us. Making everything worthwhile, a dignified retirement, a comfortable life, like we always planned."

"Sometimes, the legacy costs a lot," he said, half-laughing, half-sad.

"It does. And it’s not in installments."

Another silence hung between us.

Then Heitor put his glass down on the table, looked at me sideways, as if pondering whether or not to say something.

"My bill’s due too, Alex. Laura called me." He said it as if it were a burden.

"Laura, which Laura?" I asked, more out of impulse than interest. The image of Clara betraying me was still eating away at me inside.

"The mother of my daughter, Maria Vitória." He said, looking at me seriously after a long sigh.

Maria Vitória. The name sounded strange. Like something that both disturbed and attracted at the same time. Maybe it was the contrast between "Maria" — restrained — and "Vitória" — explosive. But it was just a name. Being his daughter, I bet on the latter.

"She called me to complain about the girl. Said she can’t handle her, wants me to go pick her up," he vented.

"How old is she?"

He shrugged, taking another sip.

"I have no idea, maybe five, six, I don’t remember exactly."