I had no choice but to go out and play like that: clubs, events, parties. Before, we would just choose a place and play there all week. Now I needed more money: to pay rent, to move out of Andrea's house. Neither she nor her husband said anything to me, but I had no business living with them.

I never thought I'd find him there. Since that day, I've been wondering what would have happened. What she would have done. I don't know why I imagined that people like him didn't break up. That when you have money, what problems can you have?

They told us it would only be half an hour. Quiet music. Background music for politicians with fat wallets, which was more for ambiance than anything else.

When I saw him, I wanted to die. I recognized him right away. Standing there in another suit, his black hair combed, staring at me. It made me uncomfortable. Not because of what we both knew, but because of how he looked at me. With that intensity that made my skin tingle.

He was attractive. Very attractive.

A stupid thought occurred to me: How bad could he be in bed for his wife to cheat on him?

The breakup was throwing me off balance. No one looks at the husband of the woman who sleeps with your boyfriend like that. It must have been because I was still sensitive, feeling like crap. Or because I wanted to imagine myself in her place: a well-educated, well-dressed man with his life figured out, versus a worker eager to fuck like a dog in heat.

Both of them after her.

Then that guy showed up with his snake tongue: "Don't you want to do something else before you leave?" God! It turned my stomach. Disgusting old man.

Spencer rescued me. He followed me to the parking lot. He asked me how I was. First he screwed up by talking about them, but I guess that was inevitable.

He gave me a card with his phone number in case I needed anything. The card was as elegant as he was. I sniffed his cologne a little. I saw his ironed suit, his impeccable tie. Other women's luck. It made me so angry I wanted to cry.

"What do we do?" I asked him because I felt lost.

"I don't know."

He looked sad. He was having as hard a time as I was. You could tell.

"Did she tell you why?"

"No. She gave me excuses. That I didn't pay attention to her." He smiled as if it were a joke.

"He told me he fell in love."

He made a horrible gesture. As if I had hit him with the bass.

"What a son of a bitch," he said.

"Sabrina, shall we go?" Ricardo poked his head out the window. They were tired too.

I looked at Spencer, hesitating. Waiting for something. I don't know what. I wanted to see if it worked the other way around. If Zachary could take the wife of a guy like him, could I do the same? How stupid. The things that come out of the misery of the heart.

But I was curious to know what it felt like to be with someone like him. How bad was he that his wife had dumped him for an electrician with dandruff?

"Have a coffee with me. Or a beer," he said. "At least let's talk."

Either he read my mind or he was in the same twisted mess as me.

"I'll go back on my own," I told Xavi.

He looked at me strangely but didn't answer. He shrugged and drove off.

That's when I started to get really nervous. Men like him didn't go out with women like me. I didn't even know if I wanted that: to fuck him.

You could tell he was waiting for something.

"Do you know some place?" I asked him.

"Yes," he said. "I know a place."

We walked to his car. A black BMW, impeccable. Obviously. He opened the door for me like I was a lady. No one had ever opened a car door for me in my life.

It smelled of leather and that perfume he wore. I sank into the seat. Everything was soft, expensive. I felt like a fucking poor person.

"Are you sure?" he asked me before driving off.

"No," I said. "But still."

He smiled. For the first time all night, he smiled. I realized I liked his smile. That he had big hands, that he exuded something strange, attractive.

"No," I told myself. "It's the anger, it's the hatred I feel for Zachary."

A coffee. A real one, not a double meaning. How stupid.

He stopped in front of a small coffee shop between a dry cleaner's and a flower shop. Not in a hotel, not in a hidden apartment, not at his house. In a coffee shop.

But when he opened the door for me and touched my back to let me go first, I felt a rush through my body.

Inside, it was warm. Almost empty. We sat down at a table in the back. He ordered coffee. So did I.

I stared at him. His hands resting on the table. His tie slightly loosened. I had no idea what to say to him.

"You know what's weird?" I finally said.

"What?"

"That I'm here with you and I don't know why."

He smiled a little.

"Me neither."

"Did you ever imagine you'd end up having coffee with the ex-girlfriend of the guy who sleeps with your wife?"

"No. Did you ever imagine having coffee with the husband of the woman who sleeps with your ex?"

"Never."

We fell silent. Drinking lukewarm coffee from white cups.

"You know what I wonder?" I said.

"What?"

"If they think about us when they're together."

His face darkened.

"I hope not."

"I hope so. I hope it ruins everything for them."

"I doubt it," he took a sip. "In five months, they didn't stop, not even when they came home after seeing each other."

We talked about them, reminisced about moments. We looked like two friends who hadn't seen each other in a long time catching up, not two people who had been cheated on.

"Did you leave or did he leave?" he asked me.

"I left. Now I have to find a place to live."

"How so?"

"I'm not from here, I don't know anyone. I'm staying at a friend's house, but she's starting a family. I'm like a piece of furniture that gets in the way."

He had taken off his jacket and his shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. Strong, defined arms, like a real man.

"I have a guest house," he said. "It's empty."

"What?"

"At the back of my house. It's small, but it has everything. You can stay there."

I looked at him as if he were telling me a bad joke.

"I don't know you."

"No. But we're here."

"We're here because we're both screwed."

"Maybe. But the house is empty and you need a place."

"Why would you do that?"

"I don't know. Because I can." He grimaced.

I didn't know what to say. It was crazy.

"How much do you want for rent?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"I don't need the money and the house is there. Unused."

I was sitting with a woman I didn't know, drinking coffee and offering her to live with me.

It was my fault for destroying her idea that she had a happy life. But from the little she told me, it hadn't been quite like that. I felt vulnerable. I asked her to have a drink to satisfy my curiosity; I think she did too.

Offering her the house came naturally to me. The environment where I work didn't take everything away from me. I still had hidden traces of who I was. Guilt? Yes, that too. Feeling responsible for not thinking things through twice.

I saw her when the musicians appeared, setting up an improvised stage. Another brilliant idea from the campaign manager: crying poverty with live music, salmon, and bottles of Cristal. But hey, those people were like that about everything.

They showed one thing in front of the cameras and behind the scenes they didn't deprive themselves of anything. A fundraising dinner. Lie, there was money to spare. It was to kiss ass, to buy votes with champagne and fake smiles.

Cheap dress, bass hanging from her shoulder. I froze. It was her. My wife's lover's girlfriend. Brown hair, green eyes. Nothing special. Average. With worn boots instead of shoes.

She fixed her eyes on me when they started playing. She looked away immediately.

I stood against the wall. I watched her all night. Every movement, every gesture. How she played, how she breathed. Every now and then she looked back at me. Nervous. Uncomfortable. She must have thought I was a psychopath or a lunatic.

And maybe I was, because I couldn't stop imagining Vera fucking her boyfriend. Imagining how he would take her to bed, and if he would do it the same way he did with the bassist. If he would touch her breasts the same way, if she would moan the same way.

I felt myself getting hard. In the middle of the fucking fundraiser.

When the first piece ended, I applauded along with the rest. A councilman approached me to talk. He asked me about my wife. I no longer had a wife, I didn't even know where she had gone. Maybe with that guy, maybe to a hotel. Certainly not to her mother's house, because they hated each other.

"She's not feeling well," I lied.

Between songs, she tuned her instrument, biting her lip. The line of her bra was visible under her dress. I wondered what the hell she was doing there, playing for this bunch of corrupt people. Did she need the money? Or was it just a coincidence? It couldn't be a coincidence.

In the second song, she sang. Her voice was hoarse, and she looked at the floor. When she looked up, our eyes met again. This time she didn't look away so quickly. There was something there, a "we're so fucked up" kind of thing.

I had another glass of champagne. She hit a wrong note in the chorus and blushed. I saw her neck turn red. For a moment, I felt sorry for her. There she was, pretending everything was normal while our lives were falling apart. She was playing to earn a few bucks, I was smiling to win votes.

We were both pathetic.

The 40 minutes were up. Lukewarm, half-hearted applause. They started to take everything down. I wanted to go over and ask her something. Anything. But what could I say? Maybe she forgave him. Maybe they stayed together. Why rub salt in the wound?

Liam approached her from behind. His wife was five meters away, distracted with a drink. He whispered something in her ear. He got too close. Something he said completely changed her expression, and she turned around as if she were going to smash his guitar over his head.

"Perfect," I thought. "A sex scandal in the middle of the fundraiser." I could already see the headlines. Because that jerk must have spat one of his vulgarities at her.

Without realizing it, I walked quickly toward the stage.

I heard him say "Old fart" as she backed away. She was holding her bass with both hands, covering herself. Liam had that disgusting smile on his face. The same one he used before groping someone.

"Any problems?" I asked.

Liam looked at me. He raised an eyebrow.

"No, not at all. I was just congratulating the lady on her performance."

He licked his lips. Disgusting.

"How thoughtful. Your wife is looking for you."

I pointed to where his wife was standing. Son of a bitch.

Sabrina looked at me again. With sadness. With pity. She started to put the bass in its case. Her hands were shaking.

"Thanks," she said without looking at me.

"Liam's an idiot."

"Everyone here is an idiot." She remembered who I was. "No offense."

"It's the truth."

She closed the case. The other musicians had already left. We were alone on stage.

"Did you forgive him?" It came out without thinking.

"No."

"Do you know where they are?"

"No. And I don't want to know."

"Sorry."

It just slipped out. When everything got too much for me, I stopped thinking. Vera had left without a trace. Without saying goodbye. Without anything. I couldn't get my head around what all those years had meant to her. And I couldn't get my head around the fact that I still didn't care.

She grabbed her guitar and hurried toward the exit. Without saying a word. I followed her. I don't know why. Maybe to make sure Liam didn't bother her again. Maybe because I had nothing better to do than follow the ex-girlfriend of the guy who's sleeping with my wife. There was a rickety van in the parking lot. The kind that looks like it belongs to kidnappers.

The engine was making a muffled noise. The other musicians were already inside, smoking.

"Are you okay?" I asked her. I still felt guilty.

"Yes," was all she said.

I reached into my jacket's inside pocket and gave her one of my cards. Why? To get rid of the putrid taste in my mouth.

"If you ever need anything..." I said, handing it to her.

She just took it, and I felt her fingers barely touch mine. She shook her head. I saw her press her lips together. She was holding back the urge to cry in front of me again. Her eyes were very green. The dress clung to her body. She touched her hair.

Amazing. With two gestures, she made me feel like the worst piece of shit. And at the same time, I wanted to stand there, watching her. Watching her breathe. Watching her adjust the strap of the case on her shoulder, stretching the fabric around her breasts.

I was screwed. Completely sick. Because the last thing I needed was to feel something for someone else's girlfriend.

But there I was. Feeling the blood rush to my crotch. Guessing the curve of that ass that swayed when she walked. Imagining those full lips stretching and adjusting to my member, or the faces she would make while she came.

She hesitated for two seconds and I jumped in, offering her a coffee. What I really needed was to check if it was her who was causing me to feel this way or if it was all the images of Vera that had been running through my mind all night. Why? I don't know. Maybe to feel like a man again and not an asshole.

But yes, it was her. I had a hard-on the whole hour we talked. And it must have been "that head" that came up with the idea of taking her to the guest house. The guilt too, feeling my boxers getting wet, the responsibility, her eyes looking at my hands.

Or maybe it was just a perverted game between two abandoned souls, two lost souls, snooping around to forget or to feel again.

The guest house was a house. Complete, with everything. Bigger than anywhere I had ever lived. It intimidated me a little. And what had made it difficult for me to leave Andrea's house was not that I didn't want to leave, but because I had gotten myself into a situation that made no sense. "Do you do drugs with the musicians?" That was her response when I told her he was giving me a place to stay.

"What? No!"

"Then what?"

"Then what? I need a place to live, he has an empty house. It's a done deal."

"No, it's not a done deal," she said, sitting on the edge of the bed next to her bag. Her belly was huge. "This is ridiculous. Is this how you want to get back at Zachary?"

"It has nothing to do with Zachary. I can't live with you forever. You're going to be a mother soon. If you want to have sex with your husband, I'm in the next room. It's not right."

"It's perfect, not right. You're my best friend, even though you're crazy, and I love you."

It killed me when she got like that, so sensitive.

"And I love you too," I said, sitting down next to her. "But you have to realize that I can't get between you and your husband. You have to realize that your baby is about to be born, that you don't need any more worries."

She took my hand, and I thought she was going to start crying. But Andrea wasn't like that. She looked at me as if she were going to say something even nicer.

"You're going to live with him because you liked the guy and you want to fuck him," she blurted out.

"Oh, for God's sake!" I stood up and she started laughing.

"What? What's wrong? It's great, Sabrina! It's healthy, it's normal. You got out of a shitty relationship with a manipulative asshole who-she opened her arms-was sleeping with another woman. I don't see why you can't like another man.

"Because that's twisted, Andrea."

"So what? You're making excuses. You liked the guy, it's obvious. You hesitate, you think about it 800 times, but you liked him. That's all."

"You just called me crazy!"

"Because I thought what you wanted was for that piece of shit to know you were giving him a taste of his own medicine. But that's not it..." She leaned toward me. "It's something else."

"You're the one who's crazy, your hormones are all over the place."

She planted her feet more firmly on the floor and leaned back on the bed.

"I stalked him on social media. He's hot, he's cute," she raised an eyebrow.

"He's like 40 years old."

"So?"

So nothing, it was true. He was more than hot. He was built like a real man, not like some excuse or imitation. He stood confidently, spoke confidently, looked at you and said things with his eyes. He had turned me on in that coffee shop, I had gotten wet looking at the veins in his hands. Fuck me!

He looked like one of those guys who manipulate you however they want and fuck you without waiting, without asking permission, touching you all over, kissing you all over. Who make you feel like a woman with their overwhelming desire to penetrate you.

"Well, yes, he's heart-stopping," I admitted, sitting back down on the bed. And that's why I don't know what the hell I'm doing.

"Maybe he liked you too. You never know."

"I felt something... I don't know. I think it's more like he feels responsible. The look on his face when I told him I had nowhere to live."

"Yes, you have somewhere to live, stupid!" She hit me on the arm.

"I know, but it's not the same."

Andrea settled back on the bed and looked at me with that "don't give me any of that crap" look on her face.

"I'll tell you one thing. I haven't seen you like this in days. I haven't seen you interested in anything in days. Ever since you broke up with Zachary, you've been walking around like a zombie. And now this guy shows up and your eyes light up."

I hadn't realized it, but she was right.

"Besides," she continued, "after what that jerk did to you, you deserve to sleep with whoever you want. And if he's hot, even better."

"It's not all about sex, Andrea."

"No, but it helps," she laughed. "Look, do what you want. But don't play the saint. You like the guy, okay. And it's perfectly fine to like him."

That was true too, I liked him. Spencer was a man who effortlessly fit into what I considered "ideal." He wasn't someone you had to listen to complaining about life, who wasn't going to kill himself because things weren't going his way. On the contrary, if I closed my eyes, I could see him with his fist clenched around my neck, pulling my head back and thrusting into me relentlessly.

No acting, no "performance," no having to look in the bedroom mirror to feel like a porn star.

I had imagined all that and more. She noticed right away.

"From the look on your face, you've already fucked him in your head," she said.

"Shut up."

"It's true. I know you, Sabrina. When you really like someone, you get like this. Like you're gone."

I had spent the entire conversation in the café thinking about what it would be like to have him on top of me. How it would feel.

"Okay, yes. I like him," I admitted. "But that doesn't mean anything's going to happen."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm a mess. Because I just got out of a shitty relationship. Because I don't even know where I stand."

"That's exactly why," she said. "Because you need something good. Something that makes you feel alive again. Besides, he didn't offer you the house just to be nice. I know it, you know it, we all know it."

Well, yes. But no. Men like Spencer didn't go around giving houses to strangers. But I didn't want to get my hopes up either.

"Maybe he feels sorry for me."

"Sorry!" she laughed. "Sabrina, please. From what you told me, the guy wants to eat you alive."

"Don't exaggerate."

"I'm not exaggerating at all. You yourself described to me how he talked to you, how he offered you the house. And how you felt with him there."

"It still doesn't mean anything," I said. "Maybe he's one of those guys who flirts with anyone."

"See? There you go again with the excuses. Give yourself a chance, stupid. Give yourself the chance to have a good time for once."

I gave myself the chance. And now there we were, standing in his guest house, not knowing what to do, uncomfortable, indecisive, I don't know. Like a bad soap opera at five o'clock. Looking for something in his face that would tell me what to do: throw myself at him or pretend to be sane and behave like a normal woman.