Housewife No More – Part 2: Evening Class

Arturo's first attempt at lunch was a disaster. The rice was burnt, the beans were cold and the children informed him, with great seriousness, that their mother's quesadillas were better.

"I'm learning," he said, scraping the pot.

"You're failing," said Daniela, laughing from the doorway with a box of books under her arm. "But I like you failing. It's very moving."

He threw a dish towel at her, and she caught it, grinning, and kissed him on the cheek before she went out to her new job.

The bookshop on Madero was small and dusty, with shelves that went up to the ceiling and a cat asleep on the counter. Daniela loved it immediately. She learned the cataloguing system in a week and the regular customers in a month. She found a second-hand copy of a book on Mexican architecture that she had wanted since she was twenty, and paid for it with her first wage.

In the evenings, she went to the design course at the Centro, sitting at a battered drawing table among students half her age. Her first assignment was a poster for a cafe in the old city. She drew it three times before she was satisfied, and when the tutor pinned it to the wall, she felt a small, bright flame ignite in her chest.

Arturo watched her come home each night, tired and flushed and smudged with charcoal.

"You look happy," he said one evening, handing her a glass of wine on the terrace.

"I am," said Daniela. "Scared, too. But happy."

"Good," said Arturo, and meant it.

On Friday, after the children were asleep, they sat together on the terrace under a sky full of stars. The city hummed below them, the lights of Coyoacán glowing in the warm night.

"Can I ask you something?" Arturo said.

"Yes."

"What do you want from us now? I don't want to guess this time."

Daniela considered the question. She turned her glass slowly in her hands.

"I want a marriage where I'm not invisible," she said. "Where I'm asked what I think about the holidays, and the money, and the bedroom. Where I can say no, and you hear it."

"I can do that."

"I know you can. You're learning." She smiled a little. "I want to be wanted as myself, not just as the woman who keeps the house running."

Arturo was quiet for a long moment. Then he set his glass down and turned to face her.

"Then I want to be the man who asks," he said. "And waits for the answer. And doesn't assume the answer is yes just because it's always been yes before."

Daniela felt her eyes sting. "Can you say that again, slowly?"

He did, with his hand on hers.

"Can I kiss you?" he asked, very quietly.

"Yes," said Daniela. "And if I want you to stop, I'll tell you. And you'll listen."

"Always," said Arturo, and leaned in.

The kiss was slow and warm, the taste of red wine and the faint sweetness of the sugared almonds she had bought on the way home. Her hand slid up to his shoulder, and his arms came around her, gentle and steady. When they parted, she was laughing softly against his mouth.

"Green?" he asked.

"Green," she said. "Very green. Now let's go to bed, and tomorrow you can cook breakfast, and I'll tell you what I think of it."

"You're going to hate it," said Arturo.

"Probably," said Daniela, and took his hand as they went inside together.