“That sounds suspicious.”
He smiled.
“You’ve been watching too many detective shows.”
I laughed.
But there were moments when I didn’t laugh.
Like the morning I accidentally walked into the kitchen while he was measuring something into the bottle.
He froze.
“What are you doing?”
Victor turned around.
“Nothing.”
“You’re measuring something.”
“Just preparing it.”
“For what?”
He looked at the bottle.
Then at me.
“For tonight.”
I stared at him.
“You prepare that every month?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
His expression softened.
“Because I want you to have it.”
That answer should have comforted me.
Instead, it made me more curious.
“Have what?”
Victor stepped closer and kissed my forehead.
“Trust me.”
I did.
For thirty-five years, I did.
Then one winter evening, everything changed.
It happened on an ordinary Tuesday.
There was nothing special about that day.
I had gone grocery shopping.
Victor had spent most of the afternoon repairing a cabinet in the hallway.
We ate dinner at seven.
We watched television afterward.
At eight forty-five, Victor stood up.
I watched him walk toward the kitchen.
For thirty-five years, I had seen the same movement.
Same time.
Same cupboard.
Same bottle.
But that night, something inside me suddenly resisted.
