Marco climbed back onto the boardwalk and entered one of the bars along the deck. Sitting in the shade of the palm trees on the patio, he ordered another tonic water with a slice of lime and watched the pedestrians on the promenade, some in an energetic trot, others in a tranquil gait, all going somewhere—differently from him. Beyond the deck, Marco noticed a couple on the beach strolling by the water and, without thinking, took the paper sheet from his pocket. He felt Marisa's warmth on his fingertips when he read their names linked in the moment of reservation: Marco Aurélio Fares, Marisa Constant.

She wasn't perfect. She was human. She had been confused. She would forgive.

He raised his eyes to the beach. The couple had disappeared. Marco then saw himself with Marisa strolling by the water. They didn't walk side by side but toward each other. They would draw closer, sometimes halt and back off. Two mirrors with a myriad of reflections facing one another. Only now he identified their symmetry. Marisa tried to reach him in vain and shut off. He tried to reach her in vain and shut off too.

In a dance of reflections, they lost sight of each other. That optical illusion, however, held an asymmetry. Marisa allowed herself to get involved with Robert because he was about to divorce and she no longer had hope with Marco. Marco didn't get involved with Eliana because she was trying to save her marriage and he still had hope with Marisa.

It was just a kiss.

The sole difference is that Marco hadn't followed an impulse. But what was exactly the difference between the action carried out in reality and the one craved in thought?

There was another asymmetry in their story.

Marisa would forgive.

He wouldn't.

Homework: describe what is in the mirror.

Answer: shadows, many shadows. The mirror is objective and impersonal, rendering our image with cold efficiency. It has no interest in embellishments or touch-ups, neither in justifications or pretexts. The mirror hides nothing: it reflects every shadow and its discomfort. It's easier to ignore the mirror and point a finger at the shadow of others rather than looking at one's own shadow in the eye to reconcile with it. The shadow isn't necessarily an enemy—it can be an ally revealing that which requires reflection.

Alternative answer: time. This trail of days and years marked on one's face, this almost faded memory of oneself when one still inhabited a world of pulsating colors and couldn't even dream of what life would bring, couldn't even dream of broken dreams. In the sweetness of adolescence broken dreams were unthinkable, impossible, laughable. A decade or so later, the laughable is right there under one's nose. Then you feel like dropping onto the sand like a dead weight and crying, but a real man doesn't cry...

Marco emerged from his digressions at the approach of a woman whose platform sandals hit the boardwalk with offbeat thumps. She was slim, small, neck-length straight hair, low-cut black top and a faded lilac skirt down to her knees. And since it was still early to forget, Marco recognized Marisa in many women wandering around, including that one. The stranger offered him a negative image, though, for she was blonde, exceedingly blonde, her pale skin contrasting with sunglasses too large for her face.

She suddenly turned away and went down the boardwalk steps. For a moment she disappeared at the bottom of the stairs to reemerge farther ahead, leaving behind a long tail of resolute prints, the right foot pressing into the sand with greater force than the left. She sat close to the water, bowed head, withdrawn from everything. Her immobility caught Marco's attention. She seemed to ration her energy and barely breathed.

He finished his tonic water and glanced around. The day spread out before him and Marco didn't know what to do next. He resumed his rambling across the boardwalk and decided to return to the hotel by the beach. The infinite void that enveloped him became annoying. He must impose a routine of normality on himself: have lunch, put on his swim trunks, read a book under the sun, take a dip. That's what he would do.

On his way, he spotted the blonde in the same position near the water. Her hands, however, were working now. Marco passed by her, advanced thirty feet and sat down. For some reason, he felt the woman kept him company—he felt that, unlike the other tourists, she too didn't have a destination. He studied her profile as she grabbed fistfuls of sand and let them run in a white curtain blown by the wind, the fine grains delicately falling to the hypnotic sound of the waves.

The woman wasn't aware of Marco's presence. She found an object half-buried in the sand sparkling like a diamond under the sun, which turned out to be the end of a broken beer bottle. Examining it with curiosity, she touched the uneven rim with the tip of her forefinger and brought it close to her wrist. She rehearsed a cut, repeating the motion three times, up and down. Then she dropped the shard and concentrated on the sea with the same absent immobility displayed earlier. Soon something within her stirred.

Marco captured the exact instant when the woman's posture straightened, grew taller, and now she was present indeed, she was there with both hands stuck in the sand and an alert expression. She remained like that for a long time, until she rose in an impulse and headed for the water. She didn't take her purse, didn't remove her sandals. When Marco saw her with water up to the hem of the skirt, he became alarmed. No one among the tourists passing in the distance had noticed what she was about to do.

In a flash, Marco ran after her. As he approached the woman, he was yelling, hey, hey, but she went on with determination. Marco pulled her by the arm, she struggled and pushed him, the sunglasses flew to the side and disappeared into the water. The woman stilled while Marco grasped her arm. She stared at him with an empty gaze. The blue irises were almost translucent and at the same time opaque like dead skin. Their natural shine resurfaced bit by bit from behind the retina, bringing thoughts and memories in the tears bathing her face.

She emitted a wild grunt, let me go, and clenched a small fist and punched him. Marco held her in his arms. She stopped struggling, hid her face in his chest and stood inert. Her only movement was the tremors that pierced her body as she sobbed, low and erratic sobs sprouting in waves and breaking against Marco. He caressed her head and patted her back reassuringly until she calmed down. Squeezing her hand, he guided her away from the ocean.

The woman allowed him to lead her to where she had left the purse, which he picked up for her, and they proceeded to the promenade. The two walked in silence, Marco still squeezing her hand.