Hearts On Hold Scene 07

Mario felt the weight of his thoughts crushing him, as if every minute added another boulder to his chest. So much for taking everything lightly, for smiling. He looked around, his eyes wandering through the house. Every corner, every piece of furniture spoke of Lara, of them, of what they had been and what was now crumbling. The couch they had chosen, that small vase they had found at a market, the little painting with flowers bought in the mountains. Their life together so far.

Mario stood up, moving slowly. He rinsed the coffee cup. His and Lara's, which she had left in the sink. He allowed himself a slight smile; on a break, yes, but he still washed the dishes as usual. Some things never changed.

He went up the stairs and walked towards what was once their bedroom. The door was ajar. He entered slowly, like a stranger venturing into a now-forbidden territory. But it was his fucking house. The morning light filtered through the shutters, drawing oblique lines on the floor and the unmade bed. He approached, taking a deep breath. Lara's pajamas were still there, carelessly thrown. He took them in his hands, bringing them close to his face. That scent, mixed with apricot shampoo and her skin, pierced him like a thin blade. He missed her. He missed her terribly. He was about to make the bed but stopped; he couldn't, she might see it as an invasion of her space, her room.

He sat on the edge of the bed, his fingers gripping the fabric as if they could turn back time. He looked around: the photos that once were on the bedside tables had disappeared. Not a trace of them together. The room was transforming, becoming Lara's room, only Lara's. A place where he no longer had a place. He felt his head start to spin, fear gripping him. He waited a few minutes before deciding to go to the bathroom to start washing up. He needed fresh water on his face; yes, that would help him recover.

He entered the bathroom and undressed, splashing his face with cool water and then looking at himself in the mirror, both hands resting on the sink. He looked worn out. He took his pajama shirt and was about to throw it in the laundry basket. He saw Lara's panties. Blue. They were there, among other clothes. He lifted them delicately, as if handling something fragile and forbidden. He paused for a second, looking around, like a thief about to steal something. He brought them close to his face. The smell was intense, intimate, impregnated with secretions. He couldn't help but think about the previous night. Her laughing with another. Her feeling free, excited. The thought made him tremble, a mix of anger, pain, and a dark excitement. Something had happened last night. Something that had excited her, that had made her wet. Excited enough to want to pleasure herself locked in the bathroom. But what?

The need to know was devouring him. He had to know what she was doing, what she was experiencing when she wasn't with him. Control, once lost, now seemed the only thing that could give him some relief. He wanted a slap of reality. He wanted to know to be able to get out of the vortex he felt trapped in. At least, that's what he hoped.

He went to the study, opened an old box of accessories. Among forgotten cables and tools, he found his old pocket microphone, the one he used to use when playing guitar. He turned it over in his hands. "I wonder if it still works," he thought. He changed the battery with trembling hands, then checked the SD card. It was empty. He made a test recording. It seemed to work. He tried to place it far from the study, adjusting the recording volume. Yes. It could work.

Mario's gaze hardened. A sense of guilt crossed his mind but was swept away by the anxiety to know. He stood up, the microphone clutched in his fist, and returned to Lara's room. With slow and silent steps, he knelt beside the bed and slightly lifted the mattress. His heart was hammering in his chest, his ears buzzing. He positioned the microphone under the bed, hidden in the shadow, almost invisible.

He stood up, wiping his sweaty hands on his jeans. He took a step back, looking at the bed as if it were a trap just set.

"Forgive me," he murmured in a low voice, more to himself than to her, "but I can't do anything else--"

Then he left the room, closing the door with a slow and definitive gesture. He returned to the bathroom, finished washing and getting ready, and went out to go to work, incredibly late and with a slight tremor of someone who has just done something he knows is wrong, but that gives him some hope.