With more accidents

Adrián’s white linen sweater, tied around her waist, felt like a brand of ownership, an imposed cover over her failed wardrobe choice. Magi tried to immerse herself again in the fiction of the picnic, but every movement reminded her of the tear in her dress fabric, and the weight of his garment on her body.

"Let's go for a walk to the stream," Valeria proposed, jumping up. "I want to show you the water lilies!"

Magi stood up, feeling the sweater swing. They walked toward the forest, with Valeria in front, Adrián right behind her. The first steps were normal, but upon descending a small slope covered in roots, the skirt of the dress, already weakened, snagged on a low branch.

Another rrrip was heard, this time longer and crueler. The opening in the back extended several inches more, revealing almost her entire lower back, the curve of her hip, and exposing the skin completely. The cool air touched her, and the void beneath the torn fabric was an intimate and shameful reminder that there were no barriers between the world and her.

Magi stopped dead; her reaction was not panic, but a distant frustration, like that of someone watching a borrowed object break.

Adrián was at her side in an instant.

"Seems your dress is declaring war on this landscape," he murmured, with a dark humor that only she could hear.

Valeria turned around.

"Again? Poor thing! This dress wasn't made for adventure."

"It doesn't matter," Adrián said calmly, untying his own sweater. "Here."

But this time, instead of giving it to her to tie herself, he wrapped her in it himself, circling her waist and knotting it firmly in front of her. His fingers pressed against her lower abdomen for a moment that felt eternal. The contact was a seal; he wasn't helping her, he was securing her. And she, like the property she was, remained motionless, letting him repair her decency.

"It will be more secure this way," he said, and his tone left no room for argument.

They continued the walk, but Magi’s discomfort was palpable. The sweater, now tighter, restricted her movement. Upon crouching to look at the water lilies Valeria was pointing out enthusiastically, the tension on the fabric was too much. A thread of Adrián’s old linen sweater, perhaps weakened by use, gave way with a subtle sound. The knot didn't come completely undone, but it loosened enough for one of the sleeves to slip and hang partially in a ridiculous way, exposing the tear and the skin of her hip again. The lack of underwear now felt like a risk more real than theoretical, a planning failure he had to correct.

"Oh my God!" exclaimed Valeria, suppressing a laugh. "It’s a curse!"

Adrián didn’t laugh. His gaze clouded with slight irritation.

"Seems not even my things are enough for you," he said, in a tone so low it only grazed the air between them.

That phrase was the final blow, though it didn't hurt like it would have before. It only confirmed a truth Magi had already assumed: it wasn't just that her clothes were defective; it was that she was so disastrous that she ruined even what he lent her. Her existence was a source of failures that he had to manage.

The return to the blanket was silent. Magi sat carefully, holding the sweater with one hand so it wouldn't open completely. The afternoon faded. Valeria's pleasant conversation turned into background buzz. The wine tasted of nothing.

While packing up, as Valeria carried something to the car, Adrián approached Magi, who was still sitting on the blanket, hugging herself.

"Next time," he said, wiping his hands with a handkerchief, "don't choose the clothes yourself." It wasn't a suggestion. It was an order. "Your taste, it seems, is as fragile as the fabric."

Magi didn't answer. She couldn't. There was nothing to deny. He was right. Her cotton clothes, her last flag of independence, had failed at the first real challenge.

The trip back was in silence. Valeria, tired, fell asleep in the front seat. Adrián drove without looking at Magi once. She remained staring out the window, the linen sweater now wrinkled and dirty in her lap, like a trophy of her own ineptitude.

It hadn't been a picnic. It had been another lesson, another demonstration that whatever the setting—a luxurious penthouse, a boardroom, or an idyllic meadow—her place was the same: that of the person who broke, who failed, who needed to be covered and corrected by him. And the worst part was that, getting out of the car in front of her building, she felt a bittersweet relief watching him drive away. Because in her miserable apartment, at least, she could dedicate herself to the only task she had left: accepting her new identity.