Português
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The woman’s bag has rose buttons unbuttoned. The waiting room is crowded. He’s standing, searching for a way out. Is it a stain or a painting with too many keys and just one keyhole?
The therapist waits. His wrinkled suit indicates that mornings are rushed. “Do you have anything to say to your wife?” The man asks. “I didn’t come here to confess,” he affirms.
While he speaks about their marriage, she notices he’s anxious and defends himself with clues and evidence. His phone showed text messages, she emphasizes.
She can’t stop imagining his hands in hers, the words, and the promises, marry me?
I love my wife, he insists, blaming her. The truth has many layers, but she wants it printed in her quotidian, he argues. She wants to be convinced too many times of her happiness.
She’s very quiet, considering her future, and how, in the end, he will deny everything and complain about their silences.
Poem published in Gravel.
