The Stranger from the Café Who Keeps Returning in My Dreams

I’m going to confess something I’ve never said out loud. I’m twenty-two years old, I live in Guadalajara, and I’ve still never been with anyone. Not for lack of desire, but because my imagination always won. Every night, before falling asleep, I return to the same scene. I’ve repeated it so many times now that I know the script by heart: the café, his hands, the elevator that takes too long to go up. I don’t know if I’ll ever dare to live it. For now, at least, I dare to write it.

It always begins the same way. It’s a Thursday afternoon and I’m sitting in a café downtown, the one with brick walls and music that’s barely audible. I got there early on purpose, because waiting standing up makes me nervous. I order a coffee with milk and choose the corner table, the one by the window, so I can see him come in before he sees me.

I met him through one of those apps where you talk a lot and do little. We’d been writing each other for weeks, and in my head I already knew what his voice sounded like even though I’d never heard it. That afternoon, at last, I see him cross the door.

His name is Tomás, or that’s what I call him in this dream I invent every night. He’s taller than he looked in the photos, he’s wearing a blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and he has a smile that only forms on one side of his mouth. He looks for me with his eyes, finds me, and something in my stomach tightens.

—You made it —he says, as if he still can’t believe it.

—I made it —I answer, and I hate myself a little for not having anything more clever to say.

We talk for a long hour. About little things, music, the city, how strange it is to meet someone you already kind of know. He has the habit of leaning over the table when something interests him, and every time he does I can smell his cologne, a mix of wood and something citrusy that clings to my memory. I play with the spoon, turning it between my fingers, pretending to be calmer than I am.

I don’t want this to end at the café door.

He’s the one who says it first, though not with those words. He puts his hand over mine, on the table, and leaves it there long enough for me to understand.

—Do you want to go somewhere else? —he asks, and his voice drops half a tone.

I nod. I don’t trust my own voice.

***

The hotel is three blocks away. We walk without touching, but the space between our arms is charged, as if a spark could fly at any moment. At the front desk he speaks to the clerk while I stare at the marble floor and think anyone could guess what we’re about to do. My face burns. Not from shame, but from anticipation.

The elevator is the moment that repeats most in my head, the one I replay over and over like it’s my favorite scene in a movie. We get in together. The doors close. And at the exact instant the metallic reflection gives us back our silhouettes, he turns and kisses me.

It’s not a timid kiss. It’s a kiss he’d been holding in all afternoon. He cups my face with both hands, gently pushes me against the elevator wall, and I let myself go as if I knew how, even though it’s the first time in my life anyone has kissed me like that. His lips taste like coffee. I slide my hands up to his chest and feel his heart, racing just as fast as mine.

The elevator stops before I want it to. We part, breathless, and he lets out a quiet laugh, almost apologetic. We hurry down the hallway. The key card doesn’t work on the first try and we both laugh from nerves. When the door finally opens, we go in and let it close behind us on its own.

***

Inside the room, we take a second. Just one second. It’s the moment when, in real life, I’d probably run. But this is my dream, so I stay.

—Are you okay? —he asks. He asks it seriously, looking me in the eyes, and that undoes me more than any caress.

—I’m nervous —I admit—. It’s just… I haven’t done this before.

He doesn’t seem surprised or make fun of me. He just nods slowly, brushes a strand of hair from my face, and says:

—Then we’ll go slowly. You tell me.

And we do go slowly. He kisses me again, but differently, without haste, as if we had the whole night, which is exactly what we have. His hands travel down my back and stop at my waist. Mine dare to unbutton the first button of his shirt, and then the second, surprised by how steady my pulse is when the rest of me is trembling.

He sits me on the edge of the bed. He kneels in front of me to take off my shoes, one and then the other, and there’s something in that gesture, so unsexy, that melts me completely. He looks up at me and smiles crookedly, that smile I already recognize.

We undress each other in turns, without rushing, pausing to look. He takes off my sweater and lets it fall to the floor. I finish opening his shirt. When I’m left in just my underwear, I cross my arms by instinct, and he gently moves them apart.

—Don’t hide —he murmurs—. I want to see you.

He lays me back on the pillows. He traces my body with the tips of his fingers, not yet touching where I want him most, drawing the outline of my ribs, the hollow of my hip, the inside of my thighs. Every brush is a promise that takes its time coming true, and I arch my back, reaching for more too soon.

—Easy —he says against my neck—. We’re here now.

When he finally slides his hand between my legs, I let out a sound I didn’t know I could make. I’m wet, pulsing, ready in a way I had only ever felt alone, in the darkness of my room, imagining this very same scene. He moves slowly, attentive to every reaction, adjusting his rhythm to my breathing. I close my eyes and let myself go a little, just a little, because I don’t want it to be over before it begins.

***

He works his way down, kissing my belly. I know what’s coming and my heart races. When his mouth reaches between my legs, I grip the sheets with both hands and bite my own lip so I don’t cry out. He’s patient. He finds the rhythm that makes me shake and stays there, insistent, until I feel something gathering in my stomach like a wave that won’t break.

—Wait —I gasp—. Wait, I want… I want it to be with you.

He comes back up to my mouth. He kisses me and I can taste myself on his lips, which should make me embarrassed and instead only turns me on more. He takes off the last thing he has left. I look at him and swallow. He notices.

—If at any point you want to stop, we stop —he says—. I mean it.

—I don’t want to stop —I answer, and for the first time all afternoon my voice sounds sure.

He settles over me, propped on his elbows so he doesn’t put all his weight on me. I feel the tip of him at my entrance and tense up without meaning to. He stops immediately.

—Breathe —he whispers—. Look at me.

I look at him. And while I do, he pushes just a little, gaining a centimeter and stopping, waiting for my body to accept him. It hurts, yes, but it’s a pain I don’t mind feeling, a pain mixed with something much bigger. I feel tense, full, split in two in the best possible way. He moves like that, little by little, watching me the whole time, until suddenly there’s no distance left between us and we both go still, surprised, holding our breath.

—Okay? —he asks, his forehead pressed to mine.

—Okay —I say, and a nervous laugh escapes me that he returns.

***

He starts moving. Slowly at first, a gentle, careful rocking that gives me time to discover what my body wants. I dig my fingers into his back, not to stop him but to keep him closer. The pain fades and something else takes its place, a friction that grows with every thrust, making me lift my hips to meet him.

—Like that —I say, surprised by my own boldness—. Just like that.

He obeys. He finds a rhythm and keeps it, and I let myself be carried away completely, forgetting my nerves, my inexperience, every time I imagined this without daring to live it. I wind my legs around him. Our breathing mixes, his gasps against my ear, mine lost against his shoulder.

The wave that had been left half-finished comes back, now bigger, unstoppable. I feel it gathering, rising inside me, and I dig my nails in and say his name, that name I invented, and I break into a thousand pieces beneath him. He follows a few seconds later, sinking all the way in, trembling, finally collapsing on top of me with all his weight.

We stay like that for a long while, sweaty, breathless, saying nothing. He kisses my temple. I listen to his heart slowly return to normal, and I think I could live inside that sound.

Afterward, we do it again, without the urgency of the first time. And a third time, deep into the early morning, laughing at how clumsy we are when we change positions, discovering each other without a clock and without hurry, until exhaustion wins and we fall asleep wrapped in each other’s arms with the city lights slipping through the curtain.

***

And there, right there, is where I always wake up.

Because none of this has happened yet. There is no Tomás, no hotel, no elevator. There is only me, in my room in Guadalajara, my cheeks hot and my heart pounding as if I’d really run those three blocks. Twenty-two years old and all the desire in the world locked away, waiting for someone who knows how to open it slowly, who asks if I’m okay, who isn’t in a hurry.

I know that one day it will stop being a dream. I know the café exists, the app exists, that somewhere there is someone who leans over the table when something interests him. Maybe the only thing I need is to dare to answer the message I haven’t replied to in days.

For now, I confess it here, where no one can see my face. I dream about it. And every night, before falling asleep, I start again from the beginning: the café, his hands, the elevator that takes too long to go up.