One table.
Armando and I had once dreamed of owning a house where everyone could gather.
We never did while he was alive.
Standing in the villa as people prepared for Christmas, I felt his absence sharply.
I touched a dining chair.
“You would have loved this,” I whispered.
Two days before Christmas Eve, Hugo called.
“I’ve been thinking.”
“Good.”
“You could come for dessert.”
I looked toward the ocean.
“What time?”
“Probably nine.”
“After Carla’s parents leave?”
He hesitated.
“That’s not what I said.”
“You didn’t need to.”
“Mom, I’m trying.”
“No. You’re trying to hide me more politely.”
“That isn’t fair.”
“I already have plans.”
“With who?”
“Family.”
“Where?”
“My house.”
“Your apartment?”
“My house.”
Silence.
“Did you move?”
“No.”
“You’re being mysterious.”
“No, Hugo. You simply haven’t been paying attention.”
Carla called later.
“Margarita.”
“Carla.”
“I wanted to make sure there were no hard feelings.”
