Story of a pathetic cuckold..

The husband came home from work at nine at night, with his back destroyed and a half-eaten sandwich in his pocket, and found the living room full of clothes that weren't his. Two pairs of size 47 slippers thrown next to the sofa. An enormous tracksuit hanging from the back of a chair. And a dense smell, of sweat and old sex, that hit him in the face as soon as he opened the door.

In the kitchen there were two black men sitting at his table, eating from his fridge, drinking from his glasses. One of them, the big guy, didn't even turn around. The other looked up and said, with all the calm in the world:

—Hey, white boy. Your wife says there's plenty of room here. Sit down, everything's already been discussed.

And she appeared in the hallway. With her robe open, her hair messy, the mark of a hand on her hip. She approached the husband, gave him a kiss on the cheek as if nothing had happened, and told him not to worry, to have dinner, that she would explain later in the bedroom. But she didn't sleep in the bedroom. The bedroom was theirs that night. The husband stayed on the sofa, with the blanket up to his chin, listening through the wall how his wife moaned and how the two black men took turns thrusting into her, and how she screamed not to stop, to do it harder, that she was finally where she wanted to be.

The next morning he found the coffee made and his wife naked in the kitchen, serving breakfast to the black man with the marked hips. She told him his name was Malik, although the husband didn't ask anything. That starting that week he lived there. That the business of going to fetch clothes was over, that he had already brought them. And the husband, instead of screaming, of breaking something, stood in the doorway with the cup in his hand, nodding like an idiot.

—You keep working —she told him, drying her hands on her apron—. The house has to be paid for. And Malik eats a lot. And I need things. So no nonsense.

He kept working. Every day, twelve hours. And every day he came home to a house that was no longer his. Malik had taken control of the remote, of the command of the entire house. His chair at the table was the one facing the television. His clothes occupied the hallway closet and half of the marital one. In the bathroom he had his own toiletry bag and his colognes, and the husband began to use the towel from the clothesline, the small one, the one nobody wanted.

One Saturday morning, Malik called him into the living room and pointed to the back room, the storage room where they kept the suitcases and bicycles.

—Set up a bed in there —he told him—. Two mattresses, whatever. You manage.

—Why? —asked the husband.

—Because you no longer sleep in the bedroom, white boy.

The woman was leaning against the doorframe, with one hand on her belly, watching him with that little smile of someone who already has everything figured out. And the husband, ...