From that day on, I started sleeping with my eyes half open. Alejandro kept traveling for work to Monterrey, Puebla, and Mexico City.
And he came back changed. Colder. More impatient. With messages he deleted quickly and calls he answered outside, in the patio, as if the wind could swallow his secrets.
On Friday afternoon he left with his black suitcase and barely kissed my forehead.
“Three days. Don’t wait up for me.” I watched him leave from the window.
I didn’t feel sadness. I felt permission. I waited until the sound of the car completely faded away.
Then I closed the bedroom door and dragged the mattress to the floor. It was harder than usual.
It weighed too much. That was when fear ran down my spine. I went to the kitchen to get a utility knife.
I returned trembling. I knelt next to where he used to sleep. And I cut.
The sound of the fabric ripping made me gasp. With the second cut, the smell escaped with an unbearable force.
I backed away coughing, with tears in my eyes. It was much worse than I had imagined.
I stuck my hand into the filling, frantically pushing away the foam and cotton.
Until my fingers touched plastic. Not just one. Several. I pulled out the first one.
