“Stop it, Angelo, stop it! What did you want me to do?
Wrap myself in the in French flag and sing La Marseillaise?
Write a book called “The Chronicle of a Disaster Foretold” and let the entire world know that Jacques was going to fall in love with me?
I am telling you that no matter what things would have happened the way they happened!”
I was enraged: my lips cracked, my body tensed, my dress pinching my skin like I was attacked by an army of red ants.
Miguel entered the room.
For a moment his green eyes reflected incredulity. He looked at Angelo, eyebrows raised, his left index finger pointing toward me.
“Why is Clara standing on the middle of the table?”
Ah, Miguel and that dreamy quality of his voice always bringing back our non-ending nights of love.
Angelo tried to put a rebel lock of his black curly hair back in his ponytail.
I did not move. Miguel did not take his eyes from him.
I do not know how much time we stood like this.
Finally, Angelo spoke: his voice raspy like he was awakened from a dream.
“Oh, Clara? Clara is just being Clara.”
Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers.