“Chiquita, aquí ahora.” Her voice is laced with a sense of demand, and you looked at her through the reflection of the mirror.

She was lying on the bed, a cigarette between her fingers, the smoke billowing in the room. Her head was lolled back, her brown eyes staring at the ceiling before she looked back at you. There was a glimmering ring on her finger, and a matching one on yours—the product of a night out in Las Vegas.

“Ahora, esposa. I don’t have all day.” She beckoned you back to her.