A/N: For clarity...because I like to use pronouns more than names: any mention of He/him/his (non-italicized) is Pedro. He/him/his is the same male OC, not Pedro.
She stands before her mirror, to prepare herself for tonight.
Tonight.
Just one night. Just one.
It isn't a commitment.
It's barely an arrangement.
It's a lark, a whim, the fluttering of a reawakened dream.
It's...fine.
She's had her hair braided down her back all day and as it comes undone in her hands, her fingers snag on each tangle, pulling on her resolve.
It isn't a commitment.
It's not.
She brushes out her locks, board-straight and black.
...as a moonless night...mysterious and deep.
Her husband's words come to her through the years, bringing her the feel of his hands. One in her hair, one around her waist to draw her close.
He wouldn't have liked her to re-braid it, would have preferred to see it flowing freely over her shoulders with whirls and twists because she had braided it wet and slept on it.
But tonight...he isn't her husband. And this isn't a commitment.
And she isn't a girl who can wrangle her maiden's hair into whatever form she chooses. She's grown and lived...and died a little already, but she's still too young and too impatient to force her hair into the neat bun of middle age. She settles it somewhere in-between, a loose roll off of her shoulders but easy to undo. Several prematurely graying flyaways frame her face, and the effect is becoming enough.
Her husband would have adored it, called it a moon-touched nightscape.
But he isn't her husband.
And this is barely a dream.
And if he prefers things less steeped in darkness, so be it.
She has no stars to brighten the visage before her – no earrings to glitter under the moon's glow, no chain to encircle her neck and twinkle by candlelight and soften the slope of a strong, proud jaw.
She doesn't want them.
She doesn't need them.
Her husband would have taken her as she is.
He isn't her husband, and his desires...well, it isn't a commitment, after all.
It's just one night.
She pulls the shawl around herself, feeling the severity it adds to her posture. She removes it, but the tension doesn't leave. She puts it back on and opens the front a bit, to show the color from her dress. She shrugs it off her shoulders, leaving it in the crook of her elbows. She takes it off entirely and feels naked. She dons it again, leaving it draped open...exposed.
Off.
On.
Off.
On.
Off?
On...?
She settles it back on her shoulders once more, the creams and blues peeking indecently through the black.
...like long nights on the sea.
But he isn't her husband.
And this is just one night. Just one.
And she can't think about nights right now or she'll drown.
She can't keep finding all those lost words and moments and touches. She can't go there. She can't live there. She can't...
She can't linger over her appearance much longer. She tucks a few of the more aggressive flyaway strands behind her ears and smooths out the wayward wrinkles in blouse and skirt and straightens the shawl to hang evenly, and she finds one small star dazzling the fourth finger on her left hand.
Her husband would have known of her love regardless of what she wore or didn't. Her husband would have let her choose.
And he isn't her husband, and his desires...well, it isn't a commitment, after all.
It's just one night.
She cups the tiny star in her hand, folding her fingers fast over it when the trembling threatens to send it careening into the abyss.
It's just one night.
The dim glow grows dimmer still as it she sets it down on the dresser.
It's just one night.
Her husband would have called it...betrayal.
And he isn't her husband.
She slides it back into place, the weight of it sudden heavy and foreign. She lays it down once more, and her heart seizes. She puts it on again, this time on the other hand and flexes unbalanced fingers. She removes it and feels naked. She dons it again and stares at open, exposed palms.
Off.
On.
Off.
On.
Off?
On...?
She twists it back on her finger once more, the gold warm from her touch.
...like being kissed a bright morning sun...like basking so long under it, I burn.
And she can't think about mornings right now or she'll be reduced to ashes.
She can't keep finding all those lost words and moments and touches. She can't go there. She can't live there. She can't...
She can't chase all the ghosts that haunt her bed. She has a guest to attend to.
And he isn't her husband, and it's just one night, and it isn't a commitment, and it's...fine.
He stands framed in moonlight, just inside the open front door. He's only a head taller than her and dressed simply. The only ornamentation about him comes from a bundle of flowers squashed in between nervous fingers. She receives them with good grace and turns to hide the way her mouth wobbles a bit because he doesn't know what her favorite color is, and she's not sure she wants him to. She puts them in a vase for safekeeping.
He offers her an arm, and she loops one of hers through it, bringing the other up to rest on top. He pats that hand and pauses, looking down and running a gentle fingertip slowly across the fourth finger that holds all the warmth in her world.
She watches as it passes twice, thrice... she pulls away.
He gives a half-smile that's a bit too understanding.
"Má?"
"Brunito, sí, ¿qué necesitas? ¿Está bien?"
Her son rubs his eyes sleepily and toddles down the stairs and into her arms, completely ignoring their visitor. She lifts him up and brushes the wild curls out of his eyes so she can see them. They're red and puffy and still leaking tears.
"A bad dream?"
He nods. She sighs, looking from her son to her guest and then up the stairs where she can just make out a bushel of fluffy red hair hiding behind a vase. "Do you want to go sleep with your sisters?"
Another nod.
"But just for tonight, ¿sí?" She lifts her voice so Pepa and Julieta can hear her. She presses a kiss onto mass of curls and sends Bruno back off in the direction of Pepa's room.
Just for tonight. Just one night.
He stands idly by.
Her husband would have told her not to worry. Her husband would have followed their son back up stairs to kiss his daughters as well.
But he isn't her husband. He isn't their father.
And they need a father.
They need their father. She needs him.
He gives her a bow that might have sent her heart fluttering if she had never known the gallantry of a man simply walking hand-in-hand with her because any moment spent not touching her was a moment wasted.
She returns a small curtsy, and they set off, side by side. He moves incrementally closer with every few steps, until their arms brush and their hands almost touch.
Her husband wouldn't have played this game of cat-and-mouse. Her husband would have asked if he could have her hand because he would have known she'd say yes.
But he isn't her husband.
And she doesn't know if she'll say yes.
She doesn't know if she can give anymore of herself to another man. She doesn't know what is left to take.
He finds her hand. He takes it. His hands bear no callouses from home-building. His palms are sweaty. His fingers flex and unflex, nervous and uncertain in hers.
They walk through the town, hand-in-hand, and she can feel many eyes follow them. Follow her. When she meets a few of them, their faces light up with a tentative hope, their mouths quirk up in elated smiles.
They want a new beginning almost as badly as she does.
Her husband would have asked ...are you happy now? Her husband would have turned to face her at the end of the road out of town, peered over her shoulder, and pulled her into the shadows of the wax palms where no one else could see.
He isn't her husband.
And this isn't a commitment.
And no one else can see.
And just for tonight...just for one night...
She lets him pull her into the shadows of trees gently backlit by the candles of their sleepy little town. He stands framed in moonlight, simply dressed and only a head taller that she. Her hands can slide all the way around a thin waist and lock together behind it. She barely has to tip her face upward to find a nose touching hers.
The eyes are blue.
The hands cupping her cheeks are soft and gentle.
The lips taste of the spices from dinner, the wine, the night wind.
She wonders if they find the honey from her breakfast still sweet on her tongue or coffee or the freshly-washed curls of a fatherless child or the hope of new beginnings.
She drinks deeply of the pleasure of holding a man close, of being known and wanted and warmed...
...like being kissed a bright morning sun...like basking so long under it, I burn.
Her husband would have pulled the pins from her hair to see it flowing freely over her shoulders. Her husband would have taken her. Her husband would have known of her love. Her husband would have let her choose.
Her husband would have called it...betrayal.
...are you happy now?
She pushes away the body in her arms so violently that it goes sprawling over roots and rocks and lands face down in the dirt. And still, still she wonders how it would be to partake of mud, decaying fruit, and injury on another man's lips...
She gathers her skirts and bolts, running the back of her hand over her mouth again and again and again to wipe away this night.
She feels the hope leaving the ever-vigilant town as she rushes back up the main road, head down, eyes stinging, body still longing for the feel of another's in the dark.
Because it is just for tonight.
Just one night. Just one.
It isn't a commitment.
It's barely an arrangement.
It's a lark, a whim, the fluttering of a dying dream.
She can only hope the house is asleep as she flees to her room. She slams the door shut and falls against it.
She's burning.
She's been burning, she's been dying inside a little for every day she's been alone.
She twists the ring off her fingers and hurls it across the room.
Her husband would have been asleep in their bed. He would have awakened at her cries and gathered her from the floor, cradled her, held her, as she sobbed into his chest. He would have shushed her and asked her what was wrong and how he could fix it. He would have lain with her, body pressed against hers to protect her from all the world.
He wouldn't have known about him. She wouldn't have needed him.
Because her husband would have been alive and safe in her arms, and she never would have had to search for her once-in-a-lifetime love in another man's kiss.
A/N, pt 2: This was a heavy one to write... just to explore the physicality of grief. I would love to hear your thoughts! -WW