Everything's wrong, but it's fine. You became the mistress.

o sample a bit of its flavor, have fun, and emerge unscathed. How stupid of me: to think I could only play with fire as much as possi

thing more. An expensive dinner, a good conversation, a crooked smile. That was it, I repeated

ay the game, too. And Fábio... Fábio always knew exactly how far to let me believe I was in control. If someone were to ask me tod

limits. The problem was the way he held my hand when he ordered another

t to get into trouble. And that, unlike the contracts I scrutinize do

staurant in Cambuí. Fábio on my other side, his jacket thrown over the back of his chair, his white shirt

my story as a working-class girl: daughter of a professor, father of a banker, intern at a private school, who passed the bar exam

ested in every word. He swirled the wine in his glass, rested his c

ready forgotten the mental warning that s

e the fi

id su

you?" he asked, leaning forward, as

ha

e the type to waste

at him,

e. Who are a little clumsy. You

of charm complimenting

f those who compliment too soon, those who seem t

ng back. And accepting t

y touched. Between bites, he started dropping p

up a wh

focused

right? But with you... I don't

eems lighter." Translation: "I'm going to make you t

elieved it, but because I wanted to believe it. It's different, yo

on paying everything. I even tried to split it, like a modern, indepe

let, and swiped the metal card th

me," he wi

w?" I asked

that corner of h

. And the day aft

in small print: I'd

etlights that make everything look like something out of a bad romance movie. The street was almost empty. Fáb

ave been worth more than my rented apartment. He open

hanks for dinner, it w

k to my comforter, my Cabernet, my safe wor

the cool side of the car, feeling

oticed. The man has

okay?" he as

," I

ride home?" "

a car," I tried,

rt, soft laugh, o

p you off at the door.

like someone w

e you be

gave me that look that

ot

low stereo: a generic playlist of modern jazz, which I bet he doesn'

e gear shift. Too close to my leg. I could feel the warmth o

me my address, as if I w

ambuí?" he

r from trouble," I said, as if it were a

at a stoplight. And there, at the red light, h

you somethin

to be around someone li

, I would have an

would have said, "You

leaned in. He kissed my chin, then my mo

I le

e running, my consciousness shut off. The next thing I knew, the honk

ng at a joke we knew exa

o hurry to turn off the car. His hand was on the doork

bbed m

asked brazenly. I

ave said "

e sidewalk, smoking a ciga

ped my mouth befor

he back of my neck. He wasn't even looking at the elevator camera: a l

ine rack, my jazz playlist, the same one I list

ed two glasses. He toasted me as if the ev

d, three steps w

e, attentive. Every caress, every kiss, every w

rong. "Separated." That's what he said. "

ing. He was still there, sleeping

ght, "Is this real? Is this re

that crooked smile, kissed

this out, oka

d

ieved

ll-told lie, an invisible contract signed with a kiss,

wallowed. F

wn, I k

it... there's a warm bed, a crooked smile, a man

tupid, sa