Three Means 1

The Days at Home

It had been at least two weeks since Dulce and Pierre had made the mutual decision to "start over," yet Dulce had scarcely considered the weight that would bear on her. The days unfurled in a blur, slipping through their fingers as though they were outside the reach of time itself. Not once had they left the apartment, as if the world beyond its walls had ceased to exist. Dulce had severed all contact with Arthur, and curiously enough, neither he nor Fleur had come searching for her. The most remarkable part of this silent exile was that Dulce hadn't thought of Arthur at all. His absence, which once might have stirred a pang of guilt or regret, no longer lingered in her mind.

Yet, despite her inward reflections, she never asked Angelo if he had broken things off with Fleur. It seemed irrelevant now. The three of them existed in a fragile bubble, wrapped in an intimacy that kept the outside world at bay. Angelo had abandoned his responsibilities at the bakery, the telephone at the house ringing relentlessly with unanswered calls from Claude. Their days were spent in absurd pleasures like cooking, playing nonsensical games, and dancing around the apartment as if time stood still for their amusement. In those moments, their shared laughter filled the space with lightness, and though the occasional touch passed between them, none of them dared to give voice to the unspoken tension that lurked beneath.

One Saturday evening, Dulce stood in the kitchen, peering down at a pan. The smell of charred food clung to the air, filling the apartment with a pungent reminder of her failed attempt.

"Boys! Dinner is ready." she called, trying to inject her voice with a cheerfulness she didn't quite feel.

Pierre and Angelo appeared in the doorway, their brows lifting with expectation. But when they caught sight of the dish on the table, their faces faltered.

Pierre approached cautiously, his eyes narrowing as he surveyed the pan's contents. "What... exactly are we looking at here?"

Dulce straightened her shoulders, forcing a bright smile. "It's lasagna," she declared, though the burnt edges and collapsed layers told a different story.

Angelo leaned over the pan, inspecting it with a dubious expression. "Is it though?" he quipped, poking the edge with his fork.

A defensive huff escaped her. "It's just a little burnt," she said, lifting her chin defiantly.

"A little burnt?" Pierre echoed, disbelief tinging his voice as he sat down, still eyeing the dish as though it might bite back.

Angelo, ever the bold one, took a cautious bite, his face instantly contorting into a grimace. He placed his fork down with exaggerated slowness. "Nope. I'd rather starve."

Dulce glared at him. "You will. There's nothing left to eat," she snapped, gesturing toward the pantry, now practically bare save for a jar of mustard and a few forgotten crumbs.

The room fell into a stunned silence as her words landed. Pierre, his expression suddenly serious, glanced toward Angelo, who had already risen to inspect the pantry. It was a hollow reminder of their seclusion, its emptiness an unsettling reflection of the life they had been neglecting. Despite the stark truth of it, none of them seemed willing to acknowledge the reality they had been avoiding.

Pierre cleared his throat, breaking the heavy silence. "It's fine," he said, his voice calm, almost casual. "I'll go back to work tomorrow."

Dulce looked up, "Work?"

"Yes, work," he repeated, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "I've... I've been meaning to get back. Just lost track of time, that's all." His tone was light.

Angelo arched a brow, glancing at Pierre with a wry smile. "You do know it's been almost two weeks, right? Claude's probably had your replacement lined up by now."