Crisis

"... This financial crisis is being compared to the one in 2008 that erupted in Spain almost in the same way and for the same reasons as in the United States: the burst of the real estate bubble, which artificially leveraged wealth. At that time, one-third of Spanish workers had temporary contracts. They were massively laid off."

That's what the economic commentator invited to the news program Carlos was watching in our living room explained when I got home from work. I left my bag on the hall table, hung my coat in the closet, and then entered the room, stopping behind the sofa where my husband was, turning his head to give me a quick kiss.

"Can you believe it?" my husband asks, turning back to the television, where the commentator continued elucidating the subject, answering the journalists' questions:

"Well, the difference between these crises is that this one is caused by two economic problems that afflict the country the most: unemployment and public deficit. Unemployment jumped from 13.8% in 2008 to 20.1% this year. With the fall in the Gross Domestic Product of the countries, per capita income in the subcontinent regressed ten years, and extreme poverty has returned to the levels of the 1990s."

I look at the television and then at my husband: could you believe it? Yes, because this crisis was already in our house.
After Carlos quit his job, everything seemed to unravel. Many companies went bankrupt, including the restaurant where Carlos was doing his internship. He looked for other jobs, but as the commentator said, unemployment was so alarming that many people from Barcelona and foreigners left the nation in search of opportunities in other countries. Even people with higher purchasing power left the country, taking their money with them. And that part affected my work because, without those high-income individuals, it became harder to sell a million-dollar property. However, I couldn't lose hope because now I was the sole source of income for our family, and we had the mortgage on our old apartment to pay off, along with the remaining loan we took for the current one, the renovations, and the new furniture we bought, not to mention the household expenses that were not cheap.

But I don't complain because I feel guilty for being in this situation. After all, I was the one who always pressured Carlos to prioritize our family over his work. Now he's at home, and even though he claims to be looking for a job, I see him playing video games, browsing the internet, and even watching television most of the time. At first, it didn't bother me because I saw it as a vacation that Carlos never properly took. If I dig into my memory, the last time my husband took "vacation" was in Africa... so he needed this time off. Besides, he took excellent care of the house, so we ended up letting go of the housekeeper, and he also took great care of our children, just like the father I always imagined he would be. With him at home, Juan learned to say many phrases; his vocabulary was improving, and he spoke almost everything, except for the word "papi." I believe it's a tantrum because we insist too much. Marisol sat at six months and went through the first phase of teething well. So, even though my husband's comfort bothered me, I didn't feel entitled to complain.

So, every night, after dinner and putting our children to bed, we go to the patio, where we sit and discuss our finances. It was on that patio that we decided to take our child out of daycare, at least until Carlos gets a job, which hasn't happened yet. I stopped going to the salon and started doing my hair and nails at home. We also decided to transform Juan's birthday, which used to be a big event, into an intimate dinner with my family.

"So, the crisis hit the Salazar household?" my father asks with an "I told you so" look.

"No, Mr. Ramón," my husband denies, holding my hand. "We are just being cautious because of other things."

That was true because, during Juan's birthday, I was still seeing the psychiatrist. We decided not to tell my family about my mental condition so as not to receive comments like the ones that followed:

"I see. I just hope all this caution won't fall on my shoulders later," my father says, taking a sip of his wine.

"Ramón," my mother says disapprovingly.

"I'm serious, they are adults and made all the decisions they wanted without consulting me, so I hope it stays that way."

"Don't worry, Dad. Rest assured that you're the last person on our list to ask for help," I say, getting up from the table.

And it has been like this until now. So my husband takes our stacks of bills, a pen, and the black notebook where we are jotting down everything we decide, calculating the expenses, and the deadlines... He sits there, with that furrow of concern on his forehead.

"We need to cut expenses even more," Carlos starts. "Or else we won't be able to pay the bills."

"What else can we cut?" I ask, anxiously.

"I analyzed it, and even though you're only using the car two days a week, we have to cut that too," Carlos warns me. "You need to use public transportation so we can free up a small margin for other expenses."

"Okay," I say before taking a sip of wine.

"We'll have to cut unnecessary purchases, like wine, for example," Carlos reveals, making me stop my glass midway. "I know you love wine, my love, but we can't afford to keep funding the wine cellar. Now the most important things are: one, selling my car..."

"Your car? How will you get to work?" I ask, surprised.

"What job?" Carlos asks. "If we don't sell my car, we won't be able to pay the mortgage. Selling the car will give us at least three months of leeway."

"And how will you get to interviews?" I ask, running my hand through my hair.

"I'll use yours since you'll be using the subway."

"And what about clients? How will it work?"

"We'll figure it out," Carlos says. "Dália, there's no other way, unless a miracle happens."

"You mean unless I sell a house," I say, looking down.

"I didn't say that."

"But that's what you meant," I retort, looking at him seriously. "The truth is, without my sales, my money isn't enough."

"Hey..." Carlos says, approaching me. He hugs me and then kisses my cheek, my lips, and my neck. Meanwhile, his hands slide down my back to my waist, reaching my lower back. I then pull away, surprising my husband, who looks at me, not understanding. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, I'm just tired," I lie, getting up. I raise my hand towards him and continue. "Let's go to bed; tomorrow I need to wake up early and work twice as hard to see if I can achieve something."

"Okay, you owe me this one," my husband says, getting up. "But if you feel like finding me in the middle of the night, I won't play hard to get."

I give him the best fake smile I can. The truth is that our sex life is also

in crisis. We haven't had sex since Marisol was born, and now, almost eight months later, my libido still hasn't returned to normal. What I really feel is that it left through my vaginal canal along with my daughter. We go to the bedroom, and the most I give my husband is a brief goodnight kiss.