Laura stared vacantly at her lover, Rafael whose skinny frame was slouched over the canvas, his effeminate eyebrows furrowed in unswerving concentration. He wasn't wearing a shirt as usual and Laura nervously chewed her lips at the palpable outline of his spine. In her nightmares, she saw it breaking into two halves as easily as a twig being stepped on by a tiny bird.

God she loved him so much, so terribly much.

"Hey," she called softly, wringing her hands in trepidation. "We need to talk."

She could hear his sharp intake of breath as he said, mirroring her low tone, "Can you pass me a . . . " He cleared his throat, setting down the wet paintbrush and looking at her from the corner of his droopy eye. "I need a smoke."

"Yeah . . . " Laura shuffled towards the mahogany coffee table, her trembling hands picking up the packet of cigarettes. "Here."

"The lighter . . . " He rummaged through the pockets of his loose khaki trousers which were smeared with paint. Laura began moving to open the drawers, but he abruptly stopped her. "Ah, got it."

She leaned against the wall and watched him tacitly light the cigarette which momentarily made his gloomy corner glow. A puff of thick smoke soon floated in the air around him and his willowy figure shifted on the creaking stool to pull open the lodged latch of the window. He struggled and eventually gave up, peevishly swearing under his breath. His apparent weakness dissipated her apprehension and she felt stronger. She balled her clammy hands into determined, tight fists.

"You need to make me your wife," she said ardently, her quivering chin was high up in the tense air.

He exhaled audibly, his voice as calm as the serene waters of a midsummer lake, "I told you."

"That was ten years ago!" she yelled indignantly, then immediately feeling foolish, she dropped her voice to a contemptuous whisper, "A decade has passed Rafael and you're still the same."

"We can't marry . . . Not then, not now." He stubbed the unfinished cigarette on the windowsill, his naked back still indifferently turned to her.

"Why?"

"I told you."

"Don't you love me?"

"Of course, I do."

"Then why not? We love each other."

"I'm aware of that."

"So let's get married!" she cried out. "We're perfect for each other."

That wasn't an exaggeration. Laura and Rafael's aspirations and imperfections made them a perfect pair. Laura owned a successful boutique and her career was sky-rocketing as the humble town's most elegant seamstress. If she had tied herself to a man who was not Rafael, to an ordinary fellow, she would have been locked in her house nurturing ungrateful children and remained a melancholy shadow of a covetous man.

Rafael cared little of societal norms and his own reputation, he granted her all the freedom under which she could shine brighter and in return, he got his safe, dim corner where he painted with unhindered passion. He was a gentle lover and never jealous of her achievements. But he was obstinate about his principles which never adhered to society's smothering rules.

And here she was, desperately trying to change them. "I'll not expect anything out of you from this marriage. I promise."

"Marriage itself is an expectation to which you have succumbed to, my dear," he said sagely. "We cannot get married. I can't give you children. I'm sterile. I told you."

A rush of panic seized Laura. "A miracle can occur, you'll be surprised."

"I don't think---"

"Will you marry me or not?"

"No."

"I'm leaving," she said shakily. "I can't believe I wasted all these years on you!"

She fervently grabbed her winter coat, slipped into her black pumps and stormed out, slamming the door shut. The rattling of the door still resonated in the room after she left and Rafael instinctively reached for the lodged latch of the window once more. This time, it unclasped with a loud snap. A cool breeze instantaneously drifted in and effortlessly carried the smoke with it.

Five months later, Rafael inadvertently met her on the sidewalk near her boutique. Her stomach was swollen, she was expecting a little one any day from now. She quickly placed her slender hand on it in a feeble attempt to conceal her guilt. She swallowed hard and wrung her sweaty hands. "It's not yours."

"I know," he said quietly. "Did you marry him?"

She chuckled incredulously. "No. Never."

"You wanted to get married."

"Not to him." She stopped wringing her hands, then smiled ruefully. "He would have taken away my freedom."

"Just like this baby would have mine."