In the bedroom, Angelina sat beside the patio window, barefooted, in her white dressing gown, a cat in her lap. She was embroidering a pillowcase.
"I had a letter from María," she said, without glancing up.
"Yes," he said, hoping she would not read it, since her sister's letters were garrulous and about people he scarcely knew.
"I got it this morning. Father Gabriel just came back from Colima, and brought it to me." She attempted to sound sprightly.
"How is she?" Raul asked, getting his boots for the ride to the pond.
The cat jumped down and Angelina turned toward Raul, her legs showing under the robe. A boy's legs, he thought, annoyed. A girl's body, with boy's legs. She's never grown up. She loves children but hates the sex act. What is it that fills her with fear? I used to try so hard to please her ... and she tried to please me.
He struggled with his left boot.
What are the bubbles of fear behind her eyes? As if the pigment had broken loose and was swimming to the surface. The smile smiles and the eyes hide something.
We've lived too many years together to disentangle our emotions. The boot hurts, at the heel ... it used to fit fine. I don't want to wear my new ones.
María wants her to come to Guadalajara, but she doesn't need an excuse to go to Guadalajara, or anywhere. Fifteen years ago she wouldn't have left me for anything in the world—or I her.