PART 1
Every fortnight, as soon as the salary fell, Martin arrived at his home in Nezahualcóyotl with the same face of defeat.
He worked in a packaging factory in Iztapalapa, standing 10 hours between hot machines, smell of burnt plastic and a supervisor who screamed as if everyone owed his life.
But what weighed most on him was not the chamba.
It was getting home and handing his bank card to his wife, Maribel.
That night he threw the backpack next to the old armchair and took out the wallet.
“Take,” he said, leaving the card on the table. But now give me even 300 pesos. The Chuy turns years old and everyone is going to go for some chelas.
Maribel was sitting with a notebook of squares, a calculator and several doubled receipts.
He didn’t even raise his voice.
I can’t, Martin. The light, water and rent came together. I can give you 30 for your tickets and 20 for balance.
Martin let out a bitter laugh.
50 pesos? Neta? I give my back all week and you give me money like I’m a high school kid.
She squeezed the pen between her fingers.
It’s not that.
“Of course that is it. You decide everything. You keep my card. You pay. You split. And I look like a guy, without being able to buy me even some decent tennis.
Maribel looked down.
They had been married for 10 years and 5 living in that rented, wet house with a sheet roof in the back and a wall that was broken every time it rained.
Martin hated that house.
He also hated his factory companions to mock.
Again without wool, do you compa?
“Your old lady does bring you short.
“My mom didn’t even control me like that.
He laughed at not seeing himself burned, but inside he was gathering an ugly rage.
Maribel never bought anything for her.
I didn’t go to the living room.
I didn’t wear clothes.
He didn’t order food.
If Martin wanted tacos, she would make egg beans.
If he wanted to go to the movies, she said they better watch a movie on TV.
If she asked for money for a roast meat, she would reply:
“That pays for half a receipt for the gas.
