My ex-neighbor recognized me at the bus stop

It was a couple of years ago now, but the memory still shoots through me like a jolt every time I pass that corner. I came out of the office dragging my feet, my neck stiff from so many hours in front of the screen and worn out from not having slept a wink the night before. My husband had come home late, again, and I had pretended to be asleep while he moved around the house with the clumsiness of a man who no longer answers to anyone.

The shelter at the bus stop was half empty. I leaned against the hot metal of the sign, closed my eyes, and let the afternoon sun hit my face. Five minutes. Ten. I was starting to doze off standing up when I heard the engine of a pickup truck downshift right in front of me.

—Carolina! Want a ride?

I opened my eyes slowly. Tinted windows, the front passenger window rolling down, a smile tipped over the steering wheel. It took me a long two seconds to recognize him, and when I did, I felt the sleep leave me through my feet.

—Andrés?

—The same one. Want a ride or not? Someone behind me is honking.

He was my ex-neighbor, the one who lived three doors down from mine when we were both still single and shared a hallway, an elevator, and the occasional late-night chat. I hadn’t seen him in more than five years. Each one of those years had treated him in a way that hurt to look at: broader shoulders, a defined jaw, the same smile as always but with something new over it, a confidence he hadn’t had before.

—Hi, what a miracle —I said, still thick-tongued with sleep.

—Get in, come on. I’ll buy you something and then I’ll take you home. This is impossible at this hour.

I didn’t think about it. I opened the door and climbed into the seat as if I’d done it all my life. The interior smelled of new leather and his cologne, a citrus scent I recognized instantly, the same one from when he used to cross paths with me in the hallway with a towel over his shoulder.

—What are you doing around here? —I asked while he shifted gears.

—I moved two years ago, six blocks from here. And you, do you work nearby?

—In that building —I pointed at the glass block to my left—. I’ve been there almost three years now.

—It’s a small world, huh?

I let out a nervous laugh. Five years without knowing anything about him, and on an ordinary Tuesday I found him at the wheel of a pickup that looked like it belonged in a magazine. I glanced at him sideways: dark jeans, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, a watch on his wrist he hadn’t used to wear. He had grown in every possible way.

—Look, I live nearby —he said when he turned the next corner—. Let’s go up for a bit, I’ll make you some sandwiches and you can rest until traffic eases up. What do you think?

The right thing was to say no. The right thing was to remind him I had a husband, a daughter, a life with schedules and routines. But it had been so long since anyone had offered me something without asking for something in return, that I just nodded.

—Okay, thanks.

The building was modern, with a doorman behind a marble counter. We rode up to the eighth floor in silence, looking at each other in the reflection of the elevator mirror. I kept trying to fix my hair. He made no attempt to hide that he was watching me.

—Come in, make yourself comfortable. Take off your shoes if you want —he said as soon as he opened the door, already walking toward the kitchen.

The living room had a huge window overlooking the city rooftops. I took off my shoes, sank my feet into the rug, and collapsed into a gray sofa that swallowed me up to the elbows. From the kitchen came the sounds of the fridge opening, the blade of a knife against a cutting board.

—Do you like the place? —he asked from inside.

—A lot. You’ve got a view to be jealous of.

—I’ll show you properly later. There’s a little balcony out back.

He came back with a tray and set it on the coffee table. Two freshly made sandwiches, two glasses with ice, a bottle of cold soda sweating onto the wood. He sat next to me, not across from me. Much closer than necessary.

—I can’t believe you’re here —he said, serving himself.

—Me neither. This morning I woke up thinking about a thousand things, and this wasn’t one of them.

—Tell me how life has treated you.

—Routine, Andrés. A long, unremarkable routine. Home, work, home.

—And the one from always?

I took a while to answer. I bit into the sandwich to buy time.

—The one from always. But we haven’t slept in the same bed for three years.

Andrés set the glass down on the wood. He looked at me differently, with the kind of attention reserved for something that suddenly becomes interesting.

—And why do you stay?

—Because of the girl, the youngest one. I’m hoping it’s just a couple more years and then I’ll make my own way.

—I hope so. You deserve it.

The silence that followed was different from the one before. Heavier. We finished eating while talking about nonsense: the old neighborhood, the kiosk lady who had died, the doorman in the building where we had met. He remembered details about me I thought were long gone: the blue skirt I wore on Fridays, my habit of singing softly while waiting for the elevator, the time I came downstairs in my pajamas because I had burned a pot.

—I remember everything, Carolina —he said, picking up the plates—. Maybe I never told you, but I remember everything.

When he came back from the kitchen, he sat even closer. I felt the weight of his thigh against mine. I didn’t move a single centimeter away.

—I’m going to confess something —he began, and before continuing he tucked a strand of hair behind my ear with a tenderness that left me breathless—. I always liked you. Since the first day I saw you coming down with the grocery bags.

I felt my cheeks catch fire. Andrés had always been my silent fantasy, the kind you think about in long showers and sleepless nights. Hearing him say it out loud was like someone had switched on a light that had been off for years.

—Really?

—Can I kiss you?

I didn’t get a chance to answer. His lips were already on mine, soft, warm, unhurried. He kissed me like he’d been practicing for five years, his tongue testing mine and his hand buried in my hair. My heart was in my throat and, between my legs, there was a wetness that scared me with how quickly it had appeared.

—Come here.

He took me by the waist and lifted me astride him. I felt the bulge through my underwear and a shiver ran the whole length of my back.

—Andrés, this isn’t right —I murmured, my breath cut short, looking him in the eyes.

—Shhh. How many times did you think about it? Tell me the truth.

—A lot.

—And you’re going to let this pass?

—No.

—Then let yourself go.

He pulled my blouse off my arms, unhooked my bra, and stared at me as if he had never seen a woman in his life.

—What beautiful tits you have —he said softly, holding them with both hands—. When I’d run into you in the mornings, with those white shirts that showed the outline of your nipples, I’d go away thinking about this. And now they’re mine.

He lowered his head and sucked one, then the other, unhurriedly, the tip of his tongue tracing slow circles over me. I threw my head back. I started moving against him, seeking the contact of his jeans against my underwear. Every time I rolled my hips, I found the bulge growing underneath.

—Come on, take everything off. I want to see all of you.

He pulled my pants down and left me standing in front of him, wearing a tiny thong that hid nothing. He took off his shirt and unbuckled his belt. The black boxer briefs were tight on him, outlining a cock that was already pressing up over the waistband.

—Come here —he called, crooking one finger at me—. That’s it. Rub yourself like you just were, soak me through. I want to keep your smell all week.

I climbed back on top of him, one leg on each side. The fabric of his boxer briefs burned against my thong. I started grinding, slowly at first, then faster, gripping the back of the sofa for support.

—Like that, like that —he growled, his mouth back on my nipples.

I couldn’t believe it. If it was a dream, I didn’t want anyone waking me up. After a while I stopped being passive. I yanked his boxer briefs down, pulled out his cock, shifted my thong to the side, and took him inside me slowly, centimeter by centimeter, until I felt him all the way in.

I stayed still for a second, forehead against his, breathing as if I had run for blocks. Three years. Three years without feeling anything like this.

—Don’t move yet —I asked.

—Take your time.

When I started moving, it was upward, slowly, measuring it. Then faster. Then with my whole hips, rubbing my clit against the hair at the base of his pubic mound. He gripped my hips and drove deeper and deeper into me. My moans got louder and louder in the living room, while the evening light slanted through the big window and painted the rug orange.

—Come on, take me hard, Carolina. With feeling. Like you’ve imagined so many times.

He grabbed my hair and forced my back to arch. I rode him in long, hard strokes, feeling pleasure rise from deep inside, slow at first, then impossible to hold back. I had been using Kegel balls for a few months to strengthen the area, and that afternoon I was grateful for it: every time my body tightened, he let out a dull groan, as if I were squeezing him with a closed fist.

—You’re driving me crazy —he said through clenched teeth.

The orgasm hit me without warning. I drove down to the hilt and stayed there, trembling, back arched and eyes closed. I felt his cock pulsing inside me, his hands dug into my hips, his forehead pressed against my chest.

—Stay like that, don’t move —he gasped.

We stayed in that position for a long while, listening to our breathing settle into the same rhythm. I stroked his hair, still with my face against his neck. The citrus scent of his cologne was now mixed with sweat and with me.

—Do you regret it? —he asked at last, looking me in the eyes.

—Not at all.

—Do you want more?

I laughed, a loose laugh, almost girlish, one I didn’t remember hearing from myself in years.

—Yes.

He laughed with me. He kissed my forehead, tucked my hair behind my ear again, just like he had at the beginning. We started over slowly, this time without urgency, with the sun fully setting behind the window and the two of us discovering each other as if we had our whole lives ahead of us.

***

That afternoon I didn’t get home until late at night. I rode the elevator in my building with weak legs and damp hair from the quick shower I’d taken at Andrés’s place. My husband barely looked up from the TV when I walked in. He muttered something about the dinner being cold and went back to the match.

I went into the bathroom, sat on the edge of the tub, and looked at myself in the mirror. My cheeks were still flushed and my eyes had a brightness I hadn’t seen in years. For one afternoon, I was once again the woman I had been before all of this, I thought, and the idea made me laugh and feel afraid at the same time.

I saw him several more times in that same eighth-floor apartment, for almost six months, until life pulled us apart again for reasons that don’t matter here. I never told anyone about this. It’s a secret I plan to take to the grave, like so many others. But today, I don’t really know why, I felt I had to write it down. Maybe because some afternoons I pass that stop again and swear I hear the pickup’s engine downshifting right behind me, and for a second I turn around looking for him.