[SF] Love in the Wrong Dimension
It’s 1972. My husband is cheating on me with his secretary. I know it, his family knows it, everyone at the company knows it—and now he’s also cheating on me with the HR coordinator.
Two things are certain: he’s a son of a bitch… and a goddamn sexual machine. Quite the stamina for an overweight smoker pushing forty.
Privilege doesn’t help me. While a housewife would have to wake up, pack the kids’ lunches, take them to school, and tidy the house, I spend my mornings in pajamas, smoking and drinking coffee with whiskey.
The nanny gets the children ready, the maids clean the house, and the driver takes them to school.
My poor creatures.
Even though I keep them entertained with television or send them off to the club, I haven’t been able to shield them from my decline.
They’ve watched me transform from a happy wife and devoted mother into something half-human—when I’m not numbed by Prozac, I’m locked in my bedroom sobbing, and when I do appear, it’s with eyeliner drawn too thick to hide the swollen eyes from all the crying.
I was diagnosed with depression.
The psychiatrist says the problem is in me—that I don’t produce enough serotonin, something very common in women.
My mother and my sisters say it’s not a big deal, that I have everything to be happy.
But my depression has a name and a last name.
My soul, my entire life, the love of my life… does not love me the way I love him—and never has.
I admire him for many reasons. He’s brilliant. Successful. He has a sharp mind for business, a sensitivity for art… and an insatiable appetite for asses and tits.
I, on the other hand, have only one passion: him.
He believes money makes him irresistible.
He believes desire belongs to him.
He was born into privilege and knew how to use it. I played my part too: I’m a woman who looks good, dresses well, knows how to speak, knows how to laugh at the right moment.
When I’m not falling apart, of course.
When we got married, I swore I would never become my mother. I would never lose my figure, never stop taking care of myself, never spend too much time on the children. That way I could always be available to him. I could never disappoint him.
Aerobics, tennis at the club, befriending his partners, taking his mother to the salon. Everything for him.
I gave him two beautiful children.
My daughter is brilliant.
My son is captain of the soccer team.
They’re perfect. They’re everything we did right… before everything started to rot.
My mother told me that infatuation only lasts the first few years. That was never my case.
My devotion is total.
It doesn’t ration itself.
It never rests.
In return, he gives me the house in Las Lomas and the lifestyle, a kiss on the cheek before leaving for work, and coming home every night—even if it’s at dawn and smelling like another woman.
And even though I’ve become invisible to him for quite some time now, I’m still convenient.
It’s easier for him this way—to tell his lovers he stays with me for the children, and keep everything neatly in place.
Tell me, light of my life… when did you become what you are now?
I remember when we used to walk at night through Roma, making absurd plans about moving to Paris.
We searched for Ethiopian jazz records because you said that’s where true freedom lived.
We danced in record stores.
We kissed with our eyes closed so the world would disappear and only we would remain.
I remember telling you the most painful parts of my childhood.
The emptiness my father’s suicide left behind.
I remember your embrace.
I remember thinking: this is where I belong.
Is it the devil tempting you with the most banal pleasures?
Is this your midlife crisis?
My love, this tragedy is devouring us.
Well… it’s devouring me, while you’re out there fucking like it’s the end of the world.
But I’ll tell you one thing, Damián: when I die, I will come back.
All this love I feel for you will make me speak to you from beyond the grave.
I will become something that haunts you.
When you make love, you’ll hear my laments.
I’ll find a way to give you erectile dysfunction from the afterlife.
The psychiatrist told me to write.
And here I am, my fingers numb over this damn typewriter, smoking one cigarette after another as ash gathers between the keys.
I can’t stop.
They also told me to meditate.
A technique from India, where one connects with one’s true self.
You’re supposed to silence the voices that hover around existence.
But in the silence, all I hear is:
You’re losing him.
He doesn’t love you anymore.
For a while, I found refuge in books.
I started with the Bible, then self-help, then meditation.
Until I came across a theory that resonated with me because it’s true.
As real as the love I feel for my husband.
Multiple realities exist at the same time.
Suffering happens when the wrong self inhabits the wrong dimension.
And finally, I understood: there is a reality where Damián loves me.
It is happening right now.
In that reality, I wake up and he kisses me before getting out of bed.
We make love slowly as the light comes through the window.
Then we make coffee.
We wake the children.
He takes them to school while I get ready to receive him, beautiful and perfect.
We embrace in the kitchen.
We dance barefoot.
He touches my waist.
He asks for another kiss.
I tell him not to leave yet.
And he stays.
In that dimension, work is not more important than me. Nothing is more important than me.
I cook his favorite meal.
He always comes home early, consumed by the desire to be with me.
At night we have dinner with the children.
My daughter talks about school.
My son boasts about a goal.
Damián and I look at each other in silence, thinking the same thing: another baby.
Then we leave the children with the nanny and go out for a walk.
We enter a bar.
We dance.
We kiss.
And in this monstrous city of millions, only the two of us exist.
That reality exists.
I feel it. I know it.
And it’s the only reality where I can be happy.
But how do I get there?
How do I change dimensions?
How does one leap from a miserable life into the correct one?
Jump.
Of course. A quantum leap.
My father jumped too.
And he disappeared from this dimension.
I’m going to jump from the St. Regis.
I reserved the presidential suite.
I ordered champagne.
I left a message for Damián with his secretary—yes, the same one he’s cheating on me with.
We’ll meet at 7:00 PM.
It’s critical that he’s there.
The alignment must be perfect.
I’m counting the hours, my love.
I will become the brilliant woman you fell in love with again.
I’m sorry for failing you so much in this dimension.
For not being enough.
For breaking.
I’ll be beautiful again. Understanding.
The woman who never complains.
The woman you deserve.
—What the hell are you doing up on that fucking balcony, Helena?! You’re going to fall! Stop this nonsense! You’ll do anything for attention! Get down from there!
—I’m going to find you. I’m going to find my husband… the one who loves me the way I love him.
—What are you saying? Helena… I know we have problems. I know I haven’t treated you the way you deserve, but come here. Let’s fix this.
—Are you afraid, Damián? Is that it? Are you scared of losing me?
—Helena…
—This is the first time you’ve held me in months.
—Come inside. Please. Let’s talk.
—No, my love. I have to set things in the right dimension.
And in a matter of seconds, the love of her life fell into the void.
Brilliant businessman.
Exemplary father.
Devoted husband.
Now Damián inhabits the correct dimension.