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There´s a man with a long, yellow fiberglass fishing pole between his legs. He´s standing on the beach, just out of reach of the lapping waves. Unusual. Most stand on the short concrete and rubble piers that jot out to sea every hundred yards or so on this part of the shoreline making it look scalloped from the parapet up at street level. I climb over the wall and step onto the gravel and sand pathway that slopes down to the beach. Isa´s sunglasses, funky and sexy on her, look neurotic and absurd on my face. But they cover the shiner. It´s not a bad one, but I prefer not to let the neighbourhood know that Isa beat me up. I had managed to keep her kicks from my ribs and even though she landed one on my testicles it wasn´t a direct hit and didn´t hurt as much as you´d think. The adrenaline was flowing and I had moved quicker than I had thought I was capable of and Isa had tired fairly quickly being a smoker. But her first few volleys of punches and kicks were hard and direct. Of course the whole building must have heard everything but not even Diego came upstairs to knock on the door. I had passed him in the hallway heading upstairs and after I was sure that Isa wouldn´t take any more swings at me I had seen him through the kitchen window loading some tools or something into the back of his truck. He must have heard the noise though and even enjoyed my punishment ...

I take off my sandals and think about rolling up my pants but then snort disgustedly at myself. They´re WalMart Golf Capri´s so why the hell would I have to roll them up? I´m dazed and even a little confused, yes. Unlike the icebound traitors in the frozen absolute inner core of Hell this feels more like the shores of Dante´s Purgatory. A southern ocean, one lost soul staring at the water and a slow change. As you can imagine, my robbery of one innocent wandering Liz of Birmingham did not displease Isa one bit. But the rest ... She had looked angry and tired the minute I had walked in early that morning - she had obviously waited up all night and was on edge. Something about me had made her look quizzical for just one moment but then she had resumed her angry persona.

Donde carajo estuviste?
Estafe una inglesa. Tengo unos euros ... y los dolares obvio.
Aja ... y esa inglesa? Quien era?
Una maestra de viaje. En Puerto Madero.
A, que lindo! Y tomaste un cafe con esa puta? Una cervecita??
... La cogi y la estafe.

Had I phrased it differently she might not have hit me. But - I fucked her and I swindled her - is about as blunt as you can get. Something in me didn´t care, or more accurately cared more about the money I had made - even if it was only 300 euros. So the first punch was a direct hit and she landed a few more and then began screaming and aiming kicks at my ribs. It was over in a few minutes, I think. But it felt longer and it felt brutal. Primitive? Would that be the word? It was a matter of survival. Her wounded pride and rage at my infidelity would consume her unless she took satisfaction right there and then. And I realized that as I managed to keep my forearms between her kicks and my ribs. For some fool reason it reminded me for a short flash of high school football practice; forearm shivers let´s say. Isa had taken Tae Kwan Do as a young teenager. But it was her rage that had fueled her surprisingly athletic performance. I stop just at the edge of the wet sand. The fisherman is over on the other side of the pier, to my right. The first week of March is almost over and the weather is lovely, warm near 30 during the day and with a fresh breeze at night. I feel like stripping down and jumping into the sea. It would be just swimmable still. By early April the water is already fairly cold.

In the sullen explosive silence that followed our fight, I knew that a single word could kill what was left of our marriage. Why did I lie? About the worst possible betrayal in her eyes? At times I talk too much - a sort of semantic signal that I´m an afable, interesting and heck, just plain decent man. The last few months have stripped away that residue of self righteousness. And it´s a relief. I no longer have to stare puzzled at others as they live their lives. I have a life of my own. And it´s a very interesting one at that. So we both had waited. Me sitting in the kitchen staring out the window. Isa standing in the living room and not looking anywhere in particular. Finally, I had sensed her gaze on me so I had turned to look at her. Pain and rage on her face. But hatred? I had spoken quietly.

Habra que encontrar otra manera de hacer un trabajo.
Isa´s eyes had narrowed but then she had half nodded in a sort of visual hiccup. It´s a confused and startled gesture, perhaps involuntary. I speak again.
Soy un estafador ... amor. Y vamos a vivir de eso. O cuando laburo con Cagnazzo o cuando hago algo propio.

She jerked her cigarette to her lips and inhaled sharply and nodded again. She let me call her ´amor´. I think we may survive. I´m willing to risk she loves me still. She had nodded and smoked and looked at me. And she had let me take the cigarette from her fingers and stub it out. She had avoided making an appointment with the gynecologist but we would have to set something up soon. She hadn´t cried. We hadn´t hugged. Just silence and the crossing over into something new. Maybe another couple entering the world of petty swindles would be more elegant or more cynical about it. But we´re doing the best we can. And we´re still a we. Who do I thank ... God?

I walk slowly through the sand and hoist myself up onto the pier to get a better view of the man fishing with the pole between his legs. He has on blue jeans and a worn, rust colored sweater. He seems a pensioner. And he stares out at the water, looking for something. Mar del Plata, perhaps like other cities by the sea, forces you to contemplate your actions. To face up to who you are and what your next steps might be. You can´t lose yourself like in Buenos Aires amid the noise and movement. I slip off Isa´s shades and crouch down on my haunches and trace a line in the scattered sand that dusts the pockmarked concrete. A descending curve pointing towards the sea. I feel a rising impatience. I have to find another job, un trabajo, to sastisfy me. Isa should have lunch ready by now. I stand up and slip the sunglasses back on. Such a strange shore. My neighbourhood. My home. And my wife is waiting for me. I turn back and head through the sand, not bothering to take off my sandals.