Chapter 7: 50 seconds

Marcos's eyes locked onto mine. I saw his face pass through a dozen emotions in a matter of seconds: confusion, fear, recognition, horror, tenderness. His hands squeezed mine so hard his knuckles turned white.

“David,” he whispered again. “David, I... My God, what have they done to you?”

Tears ran down my cheeks. I couldn’t speak. If I opened my mouth, everything I was holding inside would spill out and I wouldn’t be able to stop. So I only nodded, squeezing his hands back, begging him with my eyes to keep looking, not to give up, to remember.

Twenty seconds.

“I know you,” Marcos said, and his voice broke. “Fuck, I know you. We were... we were...”

“Husbands,” I managed to say. “We were husbands for fifteen years, my love. Fifteen years.”

Twenty-five seconds.

Marcos’s eyes opened so wide I could see the whites around the iris. His body began to tremble. It wasn’t a tremor of fear: it was the trembling of someone whose entire reality was cracking and rebuilding itself at the same time.

“No,” he whispered. “No, that can’t be. I’m married to Adrián. I’ve always been with Adrián. We met... we met...”

He stopped. He frowned.

“When did Adrián and I meet?” He asked himself the question, not me. “It was in... it was...”

Thirty seconds.

“You don’t know,” I said softly. “Because Adrián erased your memories from before. Me. He erased us.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Look into my eyes, Marcos. Really look at me and tell me you don’t recognize me.”

Thirty-five seconds.

Something broke behind his gaze. I saw the exact moment it happened: his pupils dilated, his mouth opened slightly, and an expression of absolute terror mixed with understanding flooded his face.

“The Camí de Cavalls,” he whispered. “Menorca. We went together. You and me. There was a photo next to the fridge. You were holding me and we shouted... we shouted...”

“‘Handsome,’” I finished, and the smile hurt my face. “We both shouted ‘handsome.’”

“But in the photo I was with a Spanish man, you’re fat and old and...” He suddenly fell silent, horrified at himself. “God, forgive me, I didn’t mean...”

“It’s okay. You’re right to describe me that way. It’s what I am now.”

Forty seconds.

Marcos let out a sob. He swayed slightly and I held him, although, given my size, it was more of a symbolic gesture. His legs gave way and he had to sit on the edge of the dining table, but he didn’t let go of my hands. Not even then. He kept them gripped as if they were the only thing anchoring him to reality.

“I remember you,” he said through tears. “I remember you at our wedding. On the sofa watching movies. In bed. Fuck, David, I remember you in bed. I remember you inside me. I remember ...