Marta looked at the mirror and smiled. The wrinkles around her eyes were marks of the many times she had laughed until she was out of breath. The sparkle in her gaze was no dimmer than it had been twenty, thirty years ago. On the contrary, it was the look of someone who knew pleasure in its fullness, who understood that desire did not fade with time but rather refined itself, becoming more precise, more certain.

She put on the red dress she saved for special occasions. The silk brushed against her still-warm skin, her still-alive skin. She applied scarlet lipstick, adjusted her hair, and grabbed her keys.

When she arrived at the restaurant, she found Rafael waiting. He, a few years younger, watched her with that mix of admiration and hunger that Marta so enjoyed. They sat across from each other, and he took her hand, sliding his fingers over the tanned skin that time had painted with small stories.

— You look stunning — he said, without hesitation.

She laughed, leaning in slightly.

— I know.

The waiter poured the wine, and Marta brought the glass to her lips with an almost ritualistic pleasure. The strong, warm taste slid down her throat like a well-kept secret. They talked about books, travels, and music, but above all, they spoke with their eyes, where desire burned intensely.

When they stepped outside, the night was already mature—just like her. Rafael pulled her by the waist and whispered into her ear:

— You fascinate me, Marta.

She smiled, feeling power pulse through her veins.

— Because I know what I want, Rafael. And I’m not afraid to desire.

And that was how Marta continued to live: sustaining the ardor of desire, not as a relic of the past, but as a fire that would never be extinguished.