Now Paola understood. They all thought she was living off Diego. They thought her cooking, her cleaning, her planning, her grocery shopping, her salary, and her time were invisible obligations. They thought Diego was the generous husband and she was the lucky wife.
So Paola gave him exactly what he asked for.
The next morning, she made breakfast for one: eggs with spinach, sourdough toast, avocado, and coffee from a small roaster in Austin. She sat at the island and ate peacefully.
Diego came downstairs in sweatpants, rubbing his eyes. “Where’s my breakfast?”
“Make it yourself,” Paola said. “Separate finances, remember? Everyone handles their own.”
He opened the refrigerator and froze.
Everything had pink labels.
PAOLA.
Eggs. Cheese. Fruit. Ham. Yogurt. Butter. Coffee creamer. Orange juice. Bacon. Even the leftover salsa had a tiny pink sticker on the lid.
“You labeled the food?” Diego asked.
“Of course.”
“Why?”
“If each person pays for their own things, each person consumes their own things.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
Paola took a sip of coffee. “I take requests seriously.”
He stared at her, then pulled out a cold tortilla from the bottom drawer and spread ketchup on it because the cheese, eggs, and ham were all labeled. Paola kissed the top of her coffee mug, grabbed her laptop bag, and left for work while he stood in front of the open fridge looking like a man betrayed by dairy.
In the elevator, she smiled.
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