The Infidelity We Committed When My Husband Went Away

Sofía found the message on a Tuesday afternoon. Camila’s cell phone had been left charging in the kitchen, and when the screen lit up with a vibration, the name that appeared stole her breath: Diego. The photography instructor at the cultural center. The same man who told her, “you’re different from all the others,” every Thursday in his studio, while he unbuttoned her blouse with the blinds half closed.

The message said: “Last night was incredible. I love it when you stay after class.”

When Camila came down from her shower, Sofía didn’t beat around the bush.

—You too? —she asked, phone in hand—. With Diego?

The silence lasted ten seconds that felt like ten minutes.

—Did he tell you you were special? —Camila asked, her voice breaking.

—Yes.

—He told me that too.

They ended it the next day. Each one on her own, without a scene, without explanations. Diego insisted a couple of times and then disappeared. But something remained between them: the image of having shared the same man without knowing it, the anger, and also, though neither said it out loud, the curiosity of knowing what he had seen in the other.

***

Andrés noticed nothing. He never noticed anything. He was forty-seven, his head buried in his work as an accountant and his weekends devoted to soccer or falling asleep on the couch before eleven. He was not a bad husband, but it had been a long time since he had looked at Sofía as anything more than the woman who shared his bed.

One Saturday, when Andrés left early for his match, Camila suggested they go have a drink at the square. Sofía hesitated. She wasn’t the kind of mother who went out with her daughter. But that day she said yes.

They dressed with more intention than usual. Sofía put on dark jeans that hugged her hips and a linen shirt that hinted at the shape of her breasts. At forty, her body still turned heads: narrow waist, long legs, a back kept straight by years of Pilates.

Camila chose short shorts and a T-shirt tied at the waist that left a strip of flat stomach exposed. At twenty-two, with her light brown hair falling in waves over her shoulders and those clear eyes inherited from her grandmother, she didn’t have to try very hard.

In the square, men looked at them. Not casually. They really looked. A runner nearly tripped because he turned his head toward Camila. The waiter at a café brought them cookies they hadn’t ordered.

—See? —Camila whispered.

—I see —Sofía replied, and without meaning to, she straightened her back.

They went home before Andrés got back. They hadn’t done anything, they had only let themselves be looked at. But that night, each in her own room, they thought the same thing: about the looks, about how for a little while they hadn’t been mother and daughter but two women.

It became a habit. Whenever Andrés had plans, they went out. They started buying clothes they hid at the back of the closet, in bags no one ever checked. Clothes that were only for them and for the eyes of strangers. The game was simple: how much could they provoke without giving anything away.

Until that stopped being enough.

***

On a Friday, Andrés announced he was going away for the whole weekend to a conference.

—You’ll be on your own —he said, closing his suitcase—. Take care of yourselves.

—We always do —Sofía replied, with a smile he didn’t know how to read.

When the taxi took him away, mother and daughter looked at each other. No words were needed.

Sofía went up to her room and took the bag out from the back of the closet. She put on a tight black T-shirt that molded her breasts as if they had been shaped into the fabric, and a gray pencil skirt with a side slit that rose to mid-thigh. Low heels, silver earrings, her hair pulled back in a low ponytail.

She looked at herself in the mirror. Not bad at all.

Camila chose a mustard T-shirt that fit her torso like a second skin and a short pleated skirt that ended four inches above the knee. Hair loose, lips barely glossed. When she came down the stairs, her mother was already waiting by the door.

—Ready?

—Ready.

They walked six blocks to a bar with tables on the sidewalk. Mid-afternoon sun, coffees in ceramic cups. The guys were at the next table.

There were three of them. In their twenties. Santiago was tall, dark-haired, with a strong jaw and a gray T-shirt that fit snugly over his shoulders. Nicolás was slender, blond, with a two-day beard and a gaze that scanned everything without missing a thing. Tomás was the shortest, but his energy filled the space: hands gesturing, laughter that carried from far away.

—Excuse us —Tomás said, approaching them—. Do you have a light?

—We don’t smoke —Camila said.

—What a shame. How about we sit with you for a while? It’s packed.

There were several empty tables. The excuse was terrible. Sofía said:

—Sit down.

They talked about everything and nothing. Tomás made Camila laugh with his imitations of teachers. Santiago asked Sofía about her job, her tastes, how it was possible she had a twenty-two-year-old daughter.

Nicolás watched. That was all he did: watch. But his gaze traveled over Sofía’s body as if he were touching her with his fingers.

The coffees turned into beers. At some point, Santiago’s leg brushed Sofía’s under the table. Neither moved away. Tomás’s hand rested on the back of Camila’s chair, millimeters from her shoulder. She didn’t shift.

Nicolás said something funny and when Sofía leaned forward, the neckline of her shirt opened just enough for him to see the top of her breasts. She did not sit back up.

When the waiter said they were closing, it was almost ten.

—We’re alone —Sofía said, the words coming out before she could think them through—. My husband is away.

The three exchanged a look. Santiago smiled.

—Let’s go.

***

The apartment smelled like jasmine. Sofía lit a candle. Camila put on soft music. Someone poured five glasses of red wine. They sat on the big sofa: the three men in the middle, mother and daughter at the ends.

At first everything was proper. Legs brushed, arms rested where they needn’t have, but no one crossed the line. Sofía felt Santiago’s heat against her side. Camila felt Tomás’s hand on the back of the sofa, inches from her neck.

—Let’s take a photo —Santiago suggested.

They pressed together for the picture. The guys’ arms moved from their shoulders to their waists. No one separated after the flash. Santiago’s hand remained on Sofía’s waist, his fingers grazing the fabric just below her breasts. Tomás’s hand stayed on Camila’s thigh, where the skirt no longer covered it.

—Keep going? —Nicolás asked, in his deep voice.

He didn’t say “keep going with the photos.”

Sofía drew a deep breath. One of them nodded. Maybe both at the same time. Santiago blew out the candle.

The orange streetlight came through the window, diffuse, blurring the edges of everything. Santiago brought his face close to Sofía’s. He let his breath rest on her lips for a second, two, three.

—Are you sure? —he whispered.

Sofía nodded and his mouth was already on hers. He bit her lower lip, slid his tongue in slowly. Sofía grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him against her.

On the other side of the sofa, Tomás had taken Camila by the nape and was kissing her hungrily. She laughed against his mouth, a short sound lost in the dimness.

Nicolás didn’t move. He watched from the other side, waiting.

Santiago slid his hands under Sofía’s T-shirt. He ran them up her ribs to the edge of her bra.

—Want me to take it off? —he asked.

—Yes.

He pulled her shirt off with a slow motion. Then he unclasped her bra with one hand. Sofía didn’t cover herself. She offered her breasts to the darkness, to Santiago’s eyes and Nicolás’s, which had not let her go from the shadows.

Santiago leaned in and kissed them, one and then the other. Sofía threw her head back and let out a low moan that echoed through the room.

Camila heard it. She turned her head and saw her mother bare from the waist up, eyes closed and mouth slightly open.

—What are you looking at? —Tomás asked.

—At my mom —Camila said—. She looks good when she lets herself go.

Nicolás stood up. He knelt in front of Sofía, between her legs. Without saying anything, he pulled down her skirt. Then her thong.

Sofía was left completely naked on the sofa in her own house. She did not feel shame. She felt power.

Nicolás kissed her on the mouth, slow, deep. He parted her legs, kissed his way down her neck, her chest, her stomach, and when his tongue reached her between the thighs, Sofía arched against the sofa, fists clenched in the cushions.

Santiago took off his shirt and sat behind her, holding her against his chest. Sofía felt his erection pressing into her back.

Tomás had stripped Camila. The mustard T-shirt and pleated skirt were on the floor. He stopped to look at her.

—Perfect —he said.

—Not that perfect —Camila replied, and took off what was left with her own hands.

Tomás laid her back on the sofa and parted her legs. When he entered her, Camila closed her eyes and pressed her lips together. The moan escaped anyway.

Nicolás sat up and positioned himself between Sofía’s legs. She felt the tip pressing, wet, hot.

—Look at me —he said.

Sofía looked at him. And he entered. One single movement, slow but firm, centimeter by centimeter. Sofía gasped and clutched Santiago’s arms, as he held her from behind.

Nicolás began to move slowly, setting a steady rhythm. Santiago kissed her neck, bit her shoulders, caressed her breasts with his hands. Sofía was trapped between the two of them. And she didn’t want to escape.

Then they switched. They put her on all fours on the rug. Santiago got behind her. When he entered, thicker, more urgent, Sofía screamed. A hoarse scream that made Camila turn her head from the other end of the room.

—See, Mom? —Camila said, her voice ragged as Tomás pounded into her from behind—. See what you were missing?

Sofía opened her eyes, looked at her daughter and smiled back. One second. Nothing more. But that second was seen by the three guys.

Nicolás moved to the front. Sofía opened her mouth and took him. Their rhythms synchronized: when Santiago pushed, she swallowed; when he pulled back, she breathed. Nicolás held her head with his hands, not forcefully, only guiding her.

—Like that —Nicolás said—. Like that.

Santiago came first. He pulled out just in time and spilled over Sofía’s back. She barely noticed because Nicolás had already moved behind her and was thrusting into her mercilessly.

The orgasm rose from her feet, ran up her legs, tightened her stomach and burst in her chest. She screamed with no name, no words, only because she could do nothing else. Nicolás came inside her a moment later.

On the sofa, Camila rode Tomás with her face tipped up to the ceiling, moving up and down, searching for her own rhythm. When he gripped her hips and thrust from below, she screamed. Tomás came inside.

But they weren’t done.

Tomás lay back on the sofa, catching his breath. Santiago looked at Nicolás. They both looked at the women.

—Now both of them —Santiago said—. At the same time.

They put them side by side, on all fours, on the rug. Santiago behind Sofía, Nicolás behind Camila. They entered at the same time. The moans mixed together, impossible to tell apart.

—Switch —Santiago said.

They swapped. Santiago behind Camila, Nicolás behind Sofía. The rhythm held. Mother and daughter, four knees on the rug, moving to the beat of the same men who had first looked at them that afternoon in a bar.

—Harder —Sofía asked.

They gave it to her harder.

—Don’t stop —Camila said.

They didn’t stop.

The four of them finished almost at the same time. A collective collapse on the rug, five bodies breathing hard, trying to remember how to return to normal.

***

At four in the morning, the guys dressed in silence. Santiago kissed Sofía on the forehead.

—Incredible —he said.

—Yes —she replied, without opening her eyes.

The door closed. Mother and daughter were left alone in the dark. Camila curled up next to Sofía on the rug.

—Are you okay, Mom?

—I’m very well.

—Did you like it?

Sofía could lie. She could say, “I don’t know.” She could change the subject. But she no longer felt like lying.

—Yes. I liked it.

—Me too.

They slept until nine. They cleaned before noon: glasses to the kitchen, cushions back in place, the melted candle into the trash. When Andrés opened the door, the apartment smelled of bleach and coffee.

—What did you do this weekend? —he asked, setting the suitcase on the floor.

—Nothing —Sofía said—. We kept things quiet.

—Movies?

—Something like that —Camila said, with a smile so natural that even her mother didn’t notice the effort.

Andrés kissed Sofía on the cheek, greeted Camila with a nod, and sat down to eat. He didn’t ask any more. He never asked any more.

That night, when he put his hand on her hip in his usual routine, Sofía let him touch her. She closed her eyes. But she didn’t think of him.

She thought of Nicolás, of the way he had held her by the hair and not let her escape. She thought of Santiago, of the weight of his body behind her. She thought of her daughter’s smile from the other end of the rug.

Andrés fell asleep five minutes later. Sofía stayed awake, staring at the ceiling. And she smiled in the dark.