He would bring it inside, take it directly to the kitchen, and close the door.
Then, sometime later, another unlabeled bottle would appear on the highest shelf.
I once asked him where he got it.
“An old acquaintance.”
“Who?”
“Someone you don’t know.”
“That sounds suspicious.”
He smiled.
“You’ve been watching too many detective shows.”
I laughed.
But there were moments when I didn’t laugh.
Like the morning I accidentally walked into the kitchen while he was measuring something into the bottle.
He froze.
“What are you doing?”
Victor turned around.
“Nothing.”
“You’re measuring something.”
“Just preparing it.”
“For what?”
He looked at the bottle.
Then at me.
“For tonight.”
I stared at him.
“You prepare that every month?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
His expression softened.
“Because I want you to have it.”
That answer should have comforted me.
Instead, it made me more curious.
“Have what?”
Victor stepped closer and kissed my forehead.
