PART 1
Ofelia Morales never imagined she would end up in a cheap room at a cheap motel on the outskirts of Puebla. At 65, she wasn't looking for love, false promises, or a new husband.
She had been a widow for three years and had one daughter who only called her cell phone to ask for money, signatures, or favors. Ofelia just wanted to feel alive for one night. She wanted to stop being invisible.
For 37 years she was the devoted wife of Efraín Rivas, an impeccable man in the neighborhood, always crossing himself at Mass, but a cold, hard man at home. When he died, the neighbors told her: “You’re finally at rest, Ofelita, you did your duty 100%.”
But no one asked Ofelia if she, too, had died a little with him. The truth is, a woman doesn't become a widow in the cemetery; she becomes a widow when her bed at home becomes a chore and everyone sees her as an old piece of furniture.
It was her friend Berta who pulled her out of the hole. She arrived one Friday with a bag of sweet bread, two lipsticks, and a stubborn streak. “That’s enough, Ofelia. Get ready because we’re going to have a wild time at the dance hall,” she told her.
Ofelia refused, saying that at her age she was no longer in a position to make a fool of herself. Berta replied with a truth that broke her heart: “What’s ridiculous is that you continue to dress as if Efraín had left you as a votive candle at his grave.”
That night, Ofelia put on a burgundy blouse, let her hair down, and slipped on a pair of antique gold earrings with a green stone, a gift from her mother for her 20th birthday. Looking in the mirror, she saw a tired but vibrant woman.
The salon was in downtown Puebla. It smelled of cheap perfume, sweat, and old cumbia music. Ofelia wasn't expecting anything, until she saw Arturo. He was leaning against a pillar, wearing a dark suit, with a sad elegance and platinum blonde hair.
He didn't look at her with morbid curiosity or pity. He looked at her as if she truly existed. They danced four songs in a row. They chatted about trivial things, about the cold weather in Puebla, about children leaving home. He said his name was Arturo Serrano and confessed to being 62 years old.
They left the room, had a brandy near the Zócalo, and when he brushed his hand against hers, she didn't pull away. At 65, the body also craves skin, a good old-fashioned hug, human warmth.
That's how they ended up in that cheap hotel, with a receptionist who didn't even glance their way and a key with the number 8 on a red piece of plastic. It wasn't sweet, it was urgent and even clumsy, but it was real. Ofelia slept soundly for the first time in decades.
But at dawn, the spell was shattered. Ofelia opened her eyes and saw Arturo sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to her, trembling. He was crying like a little boy.
Ofelia pulled the sheet to her chest and sat up slowly. “What the hell are you doing with that?” she snapped, her blood running cold. Arturo turned around, his face contorted and his eyes red.
In her hands trembled an old, yellowed, and battered photograph. It was a picture of Ofelia. She was 25 years old, wearing a white dress, her hands on her stomach, hiding a seven-month pregnancy.
She had lost that photo 40 years ago. Arturo swallowed hard, looked at her as if he were seeing a ghost, and whispered, his voice breaking, "It can't be... I swear to God I didn't know it was you last night." The air in the room seemed to disappear completely. He couldn't believe the mess he was about to hear.
PART 2 For more information, continue to the next page
