“Clara, Jacques is in love with you!”
At 4 am in the morning calling from Bruges Miguel was beyond angry when he spoke.
“The entire evening Jacques talked only about you! It was like Miriam and I were not even there!
Clara, do you have an inkling how it feels to listen to another man, describing for hours the women that you love? Your dress, the violet one made from taffeta, your estate diamond ring, the way you turn your head, the flares of your eyes, even your knees a bit closer than they should be when you walk, the fullness …”
I did not listen anymore. A pale moon was shedding its poisonous light on our bed; ghosts of Miguel and I making love still buried in the warmth of the peachy sheets.
I walked to the wardrobe. I took out my taffeta violet dress. I started cutting it furiously: bit by bit, piece by piece. From each piece the perfume that Jacques bought me for my birthday was permeating my lungs, crawling on my skin, poisoning my eyes.
Why did it happen? Why?
Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers