everyone
treated
me
with
condescension, and this hurt me because it gave me the impression that in fact there really was something wrong with me.
That niche, which I had prepared for my son, seemed to petrify, and a wall, an insurmountable rock, seemed to rise up from nothing between me and Filippo, that prevented us from having even the slightest contact.
***
For a couple of years we sluggishly tried to have intercourse, no longer with the hope of being able to procreate.
Filippo snarled at me, and spoke to me only 41
when forced to, in monosyllables.
From the tests we had done it appeared that neither of us was sterile, but only that we probably could not generate a new life together.
The miles of distance between us increased.
One day I had the misguided idea to propose a solution to my husband that had been buzzing around in my head for some time:
"Filippo, I thought we could adopt a child, and besides if we really can't have one ourselves...
there are many children waiting for a family. You know, I talked to a colleague at the office and she told me that in a few months we could be able to...
"Could what?"
"Adopt a child..."
"Are you kidding? Raising whoknowswho’s child, break my back for a brat who doesn't even have my blood? You're really crazy!"
The vase, which was cracked, had broken into a thousand pieces with those words.
He dozes on the armchair in the living room, in a singlet.
I dream of running away.
But how can I do that?
My parents would die, they taught me that you don’t do certain things, they would no longer be accepted in the parish, they couldn’t even go to the baker any more to buy bread and milk.
A commitment is a commitment, and it must be kept even if it involves sacrifices, even if it involves a little unhappiness.
In my case I could have said without any doubt: even if it involves giving up living.
And so I continued to vegetate.
The years passed.
And winters followed autumns.
Everything is normal.
Everything, except my existence, which wasn’t even a little like the one I no longer dreamed of, not even at night.
5.
Seeking oneself
I’d been doing it for some time now, and I noticed that Pietro also reciprocated the shower of looks that I launched at him every day.
Like a little girl I barricaded myself behind pathetic excuses: if no one sees you it’s as if you’re not seeking his eyes, it’s as if you didn’t want him to tell you every morning that you’re beautiful.
And Pietro, placid and undeterred, continued to return my glances, not doing anything other than give me the hint of a smile that opened his lips and gave me a glimpse of his teeth, just enough.
But I was afraid that some of our colleagues would notice this game of glances, which gave me the pleasant and unfamiliar feeling that someone
noticed and appreciated me.
I wanted nothing more than this, to receive attention, to be noticed: I know, it may seem pathetic, but that’s how it was for me.
The management of the supermarket had
decided to buy a new accounting program, and more and more often after my miscarriage I found myself relieved of manual tasks, which were heavy, and I helped Pietro in accounting more and more often.
Pietro, who had attended a course for the use of the new program, was commissioned to teach me the basic principles of using it, so that I could then help him in setting up the complicated operations of accounting and administration.
I blushed instantly at that news and my heart seemed to go like a galloping horse.
Meanwhile, Pietro had already prepared two chairs in front of the pc.
As he began to explain to me how that new
program worked, I kept my gaze fixed on the screen trying not to notice the scent coming from his skin, and his warm breath on my cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
"Please God save me," whispered my mind, to try to distract me from the man who was a few inches from my skin.
"Please God save me."
But it was not God who had to save me from that web which awaited me, I could have done it very well myself, and instead I did not.
His hand slipped naturally onto my knee, squeezing it a little, and I slowly turned to him.
It was if my face had turned frame by frame, it seemed so long before I met his gaze.
His eyes searched the space around the desk we occupied, then with a small smile, he made me understand that there was no one there.
And then it happened.
It happened, and I don’t know exactly how it
happened that I found myself with his lips resting on mine, in a light kiss.
It happened, and I thought the sky would collapse on me if I did something like this, but instead nothing happened.
Embarrassed I quickly turned my gaze to the video on which a small dash was flashing waiting for someone to decide to tell it what to do.
How could this have happened?
How could I have allowed something like this to happen?
How would I be able go home to my husband that evening?
As soon the "lesson" finished, I went to the bathroom, and stayed there for a good quarter of an hour: I spent it almost entirely in front of the mirror, looking at myself, to see if something had changed in me, if you could see that I had kissed another man, who was not my husband.
I washed my lips with soap, rubbing hard as if
they were really dirty, and then I rushed to take the bus home.
As I ran my thoughts were galloping too.
I was a married woman, and Pietro also had a wife, even though he never talked about her.
What had I been thinking?
***
Filippo had not arrived yet.
Good.
I would prepare the hunter's chicken that he likes so much to be forgiven for what he will never know, and to seal my mute promise that I would never do it again.
How would I be able to kiss him?
Would it still be the same or had something changed, that afternoon?
He arrived when it was already dark and giving me an apathetic kiss on the forehead got me out of
the bind of finding out if he would feel the taste of Pietro on my lips.
***
A confession.
The first.
The words come out in drops, digging into recent events, too recent for them not to still hurt.
I have to shape my will.
"Forgive me father for I have sinned."
Forgive me.
Forgiveness.
"I desire another woman's man."
Forgive me, O father.
The confessional is dark and through the grate I glimpse a figure intent on listening to me, his head bowed.
"My girl, the flesh is weak."
