Rodrigo muttered something Mariana could not hear.
Teresa answered louder. “She thinks because she works at that hospital, she is better than us. But look around. A woman who lets books rot in dust and comes home smelling like death cannot keep a home. No wonder your inspiration is gone.”
Mariana closed her eyes.
Her inspiration is gone.
For two years, Rodrigo had used that phrase like a medical diagnosis. His inspiration was gone, so he could not work. His inspiration was gone, so he could not help with bills. His inspiration was gone, so Mariana needed to be understanding when he slept until noon, smoked on the porch, ordered expensive brushes online, and told friends he was “in a difficult creative season.” His inspiration had vanished at precisely the same time Mariana’s paycheck became enough to cover the mortgage alone.
When she met Rodrigo at a gallery opening in Pilsen, he had seemed gentle in a world that had never been gentle to her. He painted large, moody canvases full of gray skies and empty chairs. He spoke softly about beauty, grief, and the dignity of ordinary people. Mariana was twenty-nine then, a cardiac nurse who had put herself through community college, then nursing school, while caring for her mother after a stroke. She had lived in rented rooms, eaten discount groceries, and worked night shifts until dawn made the sidewalks look unreal. Rodrigo looked at her like she was not tired but luminous. He told her nurses carried entire worlds in their hands. No man had ever described her exhaustion as something sacred before.
She loved him for that.
