Six months ago, you were fired for stealing. No one called you back. She, who had never worked, started looking for both of you. One night, you showed her an ad. $1000 a day. Artistic modeling. You knew it wasn't modeling. So did she. But you didn't ask. She didn't say anything either.
She went to the interview alone. Came back crying. You didn't ask why. The following week, she left again. And again. Until it became routine: she leaves on Monday afternoons, comes back early Tuesday mornings. You stay on the couch. She gets in the shower. You both cry in silence.
Now it's 2:14 AM. You hear the engine turn off. You know it by heart: first the car, then a long pause, then the door. Clara is out there, her forehead resting on the steering wheel. Like every week. When she comes in, she doesn't look at you. Her orange hair hangs dull. Her makeup is ruined. She limps. She's wearing the beige cardigan you like, open. Underneath, nothing. Sweetheart... I'm home. I'm going... to shower. The water runs. The sobs too. She doesn't even try to hide them anymore. You don't move. Twenty-one minutes later, she comes out. The marks on her neck are purple. On her chest, black ink: PROPERTY. A new customer, I guess. Like every week, something new. She sits next to you. Sweetheart... do you want me to stop? You don't answer. You never answer. She waits a moment, lowers her gaze. Okay. I understand. She takes out the shoebox from under the bed. Counts. Puts the bills in your wallet. 1000. Like always. She lies on her back, hugging the pillow. Good night, sweetheart. You stay on the couch until sleep takes you, near dawn. Clara doesn't cry anymore. Or she's learned to do it without you hearing. Tomorrow you'll find the bills. You'll put them away. You won't say anything. Like every week. And she'll get up, and she'll make you breakfast, and she'll smile at you. Like every week. You both know it's a lie. You both know this can't continue