She was happy to be outside again. He hadn’t said a word since they left the room. The air was cold and gave them a break from the infernal heat.
  At least one good thing, he thought.

 Then he saw a giant made of water rise behind the hotel, crown itself with foam, and explode on the shore. The violence of the impact shook the ground, and he felt it in the soles of his feet.

 They walked parallel to the water. The street was empty and torn up.
  The hurricane had left the beach unusable.
  He saw it filthy, full of branches and seaweed like fishermen’s nets.

“Look at those clouds, they’re so beautiful,” she pointed.

 They were running in the distance, swirling and heavy, with a metallic sheen under their belly. He noticed the lifeguards had roped off the entire beach so no one would go in.

 They passed the Sheraton entrance and didn’t see anyone there either. That short walk was their first outing after ten days of lockdown. She smiled, looking at everything as if she had just arrived, commenting on every little thing. His stomach still churned and his legs were weak. The fever had left him skin and bones.

“I loved the online meeting we had with the girls yesterday,” she said as they walked past a restaurant whose windows were boarded up. “Most of them were older women, but I loved talking to them anyway. One of them really liked me and said she wants to take a trip together. Can you believe that?”

 No, I can’t. Not at all.

 She looked at him for a moment, and he felt she was waiting for him to say something, to ask some more. She was dying to talk now that they were finally outside. The day was so beautiful!

“What a shitty day,” he said. “At least it’s cold.”

  A gust of salty wind hit them in the face, and she closed her eyes and lifted her arms to the sky. He looked the other way.
  Oh, please…

“This is all so beautiful! Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

  He looked up at the mass of ashen clouds covering the sky.
  The last of the hurricane.

 And he tripped on a stone and had to grab her arm to keep from falling. He immediately heard her laugh—light, childlike, without any malice. The fact that there was no malice was what really bothered him.

“I’d forgotten about this!” she said. “Ha ha ha! You’re not you if you don’t stumble!”

  He felt his tongue stick to his palate and took a few extra seconds to answer.

“I know,” he muttered.

 He felt her eyes on him but didn’t turn to look.

“Did the people from the translation job write back, love?” she said.

“Not yet.”

“What if you write them again? So it doesn’t take so many days. Then they’ll see you’re interested.”

  He clenched his jaw and tried to hold himself back, but his voice still came out venomous.

“What if you let me handle it?”

  Guilt immediately tightened his throat, and he wanted to run and jump on the rocks, crack his skull like one of the coconuts they hacked open on the beach.

“I’m on it. Stay out of it,” he said.

  He looked at the water again. There was a ship far out there. Only the tower and a few containers were visible. He wanted to be there, getting away from her and that hellish place. At the bottom of the ocean.

“Don’t get mad, baby, I was just asking.”

“No, you were telling me what to do. You don’t like when—”

“Stop already!”

  He felt a jolt inside his tight chest and saw her drop her arms in frustration. Then he heard her speak normally again.

“I just want to help you. Don’t get mad at me, it’s not good for you.”

   He kept looking ahead.

“I’m the only one who really had it bad. You threw up for one day. One,” he said, looking at her and lifting his index finger. “I had a fever for a week. Remember?”

  He stared at her while they walked, keeping one eye on the ground so he wouldn’t trip again. He was bothered by the weakness in his legs, by not being able to control his own body. The fever was driving him mad.

  Six days.
  He could still feel it under his skin, waiting for him to let his guard down so it could rise again. He was scared, yellowish, with his cheeks sunken and his eyes burning as if he were still delirious.

“C’mon, love, let’s not talk about this anymore,” she said, looking ahead.

“Of course, let’s talk when it suits you. Otherwise you don’t leave me alone.”

  She covered her face with her hands.

“I just don’t know what to say anymore! Everything bothers you!”

“Don’t say anything. Leave me alone. Can you?”

 He knew the tone had gone too far, but she didn’t seem to notice. She never seemed to notice these things.
“Let’s not fight anymore, baby, please,” she said.

  She stopped him and leaned her face close. He suddenly saw her more beautiful, her cheeks full again, as if nothing had happened to her.
  One single day. And me…

“I love you,” she said. “You’re the man of my life and you always will be. I know you’re going through a rough moment and I’ll be here when you come out of it. Come here.”

 This could only happen in my head.

 She hugged him and promised everything would be fine. The salty air blew colder and sent a chill through their skin. He closed his eyes and let himself be loved for the first time. How much he needed it.
  If only this were real…

 Then he felt another tremor rising from the soles of his feet. She pushed him off and burst out laughing.

“You really believed that?! Ha ha ha! I don’t care about your life! Look at me! Look at me!”

  Hatred chewed him from the inside, and he glanced at her sideways.
  That’s the truth.

 She walked calmly, smiling, looking at the other side of the street to avoid seeing him.
  Who does she think she is to ignore me? This bitch…

“Don’t tell me what to do anymore,” he said, squeezing every word. “Haven’t you seen me sending emails every day? I’ve sent over a hundred. You know how many replied? Not. One.”

But she wasn’t listening anymore. She’d gone ahead, and he saw her hurry into the supermarket.
  They walked the aisles without talking. They bought bread, discounted ham, plastic cheese, and powdered soup.

 What’s gonna happen if I don’t get another translation job? How are we going to pay the rent?

 They walked back with some hurry, glancing quickly at the black sky closing over them. He didn’t say a word the whole way. She kept talking about her workshop and how good it would be for him to find any job for a while.

“Until you get a translation job, love.”

  He heard that in the middle of the windstorm that had formed, amidst the wind lashing the highest treetops and the cries of the frightened birds.

  They reached the building as the first cold drops hit their backs and arms. The neighborhood was quiet; most people were still shut inside. They climbed the stairs carefully so they wouldn’t slip—humidity turned the steps into slick traps. She never held the railing; the grease disgusted her, the stickiness it left on her hands.

  He stepped into the studio first, but the smell of a body in confinement, the smell of sickness, stopped him and he couldn’t move from the door.
  Is this really all?

  It was a smell of a sick man’s sweat, of a body excreting something sour through its pores, like every night he’d had a fever.

  She walked past him singing and put water on for the soup as if happiness came packaged inside that little green envelope.

  Is this really all?

 He tightened his fists.
  After everything, this is all you give me? This shitty life, this shitty place.

 He slammed the door.

 Didn’t I give you enough of myself? What else do you want me to do to prove I’m “worthy” of your crumbs? How much more do I have to tear myself apart from the inside, you son of a bitch? Wasn’t it enough already? I’m talking to you, you piece of shit! Where are you?! Show yourself!

 He scratched his face until he carved lines into it and locked himself in the bathroom to cry. She was laughing with someone on the phone, and the soup boiled over and spilled onto the electric stove. He heard the rain pelting the roof, felt the heat crawling over his damp skin. She spoke louder so she wouldn’t hear him crying. Then confirmed a new online meeting, and after hanging up, she turned up the music and sang with her arms in the air:

“Life is beautiful!”

  The crêpe-paper butterflies she had taped to the walls fluttered around her. The corner where she worked lit up when she turned on the small lamp, and he felt crying overtake his body; he felt himself floating, curled on the toilet seat. The music blasted his ears and rage slowly dimmed the tears. He heard her scream in ecstasy:

“Look at me, love! Why won’t you look at me?! I want you to see me!”

  He was sure she was dancing with her arms open, her head thrown back…

…believing any of that is real. Give it time—it will betray you when you need it most.

  He splashed cold water on his swollen face and sat back down on the toilet. He couldn’t go out, couldn’t face her.

 Look me in the eyes and tell me everything you do isn’t escaping.

 The clouds pressed against the building and made the windows rattle. She started chanting mantras and he buried his head in his arms. She gave endless thanks to Ganesha, to Shiva, to God. Then he undressed and stepped into the shower and let the cold water run over his bones until he calmed down.

  The fever came back that night.

“You shouldn’t have gone out, love,” she said at some point, but the pain in his temples was unbearable and he could barely open his eyes.

 The rain lasted three days. On the fourth he got up feeling better. She was typing with her back to the bed.

“You’re sick,” he told her. “I don’t want to see you anymore,” and he felt the dizziness again.

 Then he sat carefully on the bed and began to get dressed, began to pack his things. She turned around and smiled at him from her desk. Her eyes were swollen from crying. She was surrounded by a sky of butterflies.

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Nicolás Kouzouyan is a Uruguayan fiction writer based in Guadalajara, Mexico. His work has appeared in literary magazines across Latin America and Europe. He is a contributor to Luvina (University of Guadalajara) and has been published in Translator Magazine. He has completed two short story collections and a novel.