There was no movement next to her in the bed, except for the lifting and sagging of Benito’s stomach under the comforter, his face buried underneath the covers, which, much to Rosaura’s regret, did not work as a sound barrier. Benito’s snoring often kept her from falling asleep, or once asleep, woke her up, leading to tossing and turning and swearing for hours in the middle of the night, churning inside, like the bread in a mixing machine. But Benito slept. 

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