24 Santo Domingo

Blanca does not know what she will say once she opens her door. Words no longer roll easily off her tongue. Her night whispers have been unheard or forgotten for too long. She has lost the fire beneath her throat. Underneath the broken shards of her heart, there is an angry splendor that beats against her like a storm.

She knew Marco would eventually come back, that he would try to cross her theshold again. The timbre had been ringing incessantly since she returned from teaching her class in Centro. He knew every footstep she took during her much too ordinary days. It was Marco's style to be so demanding, to lean against the bell until it provoked Blanca to surface from the shadows of her home.

If Blanca tolerated his precocious visits again, Marco would strip her down to her bones and leave her with nothing but an anxious void.

The bell begins to take on a more demanding tone. Blanca stares at her ringless finger. Her dark legs begin to quiver, her unkissed mouth suddenly goes dry.

She could simply pretend not to be home.

Behind the thick walls of her home, Blanca had created a refuge that held all her secrets. Her solitude expanded with each heave of fate. Surrounded by the formidable swirled rejas on her windows and the iron elliptical cages against her thick wooden door, she felt both protected and imprisoned. In the wake of her lost love, Blanca created an easier truth. The silent world behind her mesquite door allowed her to mourn in privacy what no longer existed. The tiresome entryway of 24 Hernandez Marcias defined her own weary exile.

Her bitterness towards Marco had become a strange comfort in the end. Her good sense and delicate heart had failed her during their affair. She knew he was not free to truly love her. He would never leave his perpetually pregnant wife or his father's successful exporting business to seek a life of his own.

She missed everything and nothing about Marco. Her life, once filled with passion and a tenuous symmetry, now was threadbare without her lover. In the moments when Blanca allowed her memories to soften, an indescribable surge would rise inside of her. His eyes had melted her like ice, breaking off her tightly held principles in sharp little chunks.

She had always known that his gifts were misguided. Marco only cared for Blanca in an abstract way. It was all a beautiful lie, one he whispered to her, and then she repeated it to herself over and over again in desperation. Their fervent lovemaking dismantled her resolve each time they were together. Her sexual wounds became her deepest shame. His touch left invisible burns upon her skin. Now they had turned into the infinite scars of his absence

If Blanca was brave enough to look into the mirror, to gaze into its scrolled golden frame, she would see only dust and muted tears. Her reflection was one of a woman whose life had already been lived.

I cannot, I cannot, she repeats to herself, as she moves closer to the door.

Blanca closes her watery eyes and sees only a dark sky. She floats against the emptiness and finds a lost dream.

She touches the cold door handle and begins to unlock the cerradura slowly. She promises herself that she will not weep. Her small hands move like nervous birds.

Blanca stares out onto the busy street. She can only see Pedro and his burros in the distance, selling his firewood and manure. Happy children prancing on the sidewalk.

She moans slowly to herself. She will not die another death today. Blanca touches the bell with tenderness and closes the door behind her.