What My Wife and I Went Looking for on the Highway

The dashboard thermometer read thirty-two degrees when I turned the key. The Opel Corsa started at the first try and the plastic hula girl shook on the dashboard as if she were dancing for us. Chipped paint, faded skirt, a gift from the twins twenty years ago, when we were still “Dad” and “Mom” and not two names in an address book that greet each other by message every fifteen days.

The air conditioning worked, and that was almost a miracle. That car had nearly three hundred thousand kilometers on it and it still spat out cold air, with a sound like a cat trapped in a washing machine, but it cooled. It was already more than one could ask for.

—I’m roasting in this heat —Reme huffed, dropping into the passenger seat with that catlike stretch she had perfected over the years.

The white T-shirt clung to her body, soaked through, tracing every curve beneath the fabric. It was barely five minutes from the sand to the parking lot, but the midday sun had been enough to turn the sweat into a salty film between the cotton and her skin. Underneath she wore no bra, only the black bikini bottoms showing at her hips. And her nipples, dark and stiff from the chill of the air, showed through shamelessly. After all these years, they were still my undoing.

Everything shows under that T-shirt. Forty years old and she still gets me going like the first day.

—Will you cool me off? —she added, in that voice she used when she wanted to tease me. A double meaning that practically came with subtitles.

I put it in first and pulled out of the beach parking lot at Agua Amarga. Sand on the pedals, smell of salt and that store-brand sunscreen that smells like coconut. I was still wearing my wet swim trunks and an old cotton T-shirt.

—I’ve always preferred artisanal ice cream —I told her, taking the exit toward the highway—. With texture, with history.

She burst out laughing, in that way of hers that wrinkled her eyes.

—Are you calling me artisanal or old?

—I’m calling you perfect just the way you are.

She stretched out her hand and touched my thigh. Her fingers left a pale mark on the skin reddened by the sun. A small gesture, repeated ever since Hombres G played on every radio. But that afternoon there was something else to it: a promise.

—After forty years, you still know what to say —she murmured, squeezing my leg.

She glances at me sideways. She knows perfectly well what she does to my body. And I know what happens to hers.

The road stretched straight to the south, between orange groves that seemed to be praying with their drooping leaves, worn out by the sun. Heat wasn’t a temperature: it was a heavy, sticky bug that sat on your chest. The asphalt shimmered in the distance, as if it had a fever.

Reme had her bare feet propped on the dashboard, toenails painted dark red and a little sand left between her toes. On her ankle, the gold bracelet she never took off: three tiny charms, an A, a C and a P, the initials of the kids, who weren’t so much kids anymore. Her legs were still firm, golden, shining in the afternoon light.

—Four hours with no clothes on and I already miss being naked —she said suddenly, stretching out—. This T-shirt is torturing me.

—I’d say it does its job wonderfully. From here, I can see everything perfectly.

She shot me a sideways look with that smile that promised trouble.

—Pervert.

—I’ve been one for decades. I’m not changing now.

—You know? —she said, lowering the visor to look at herself in the mirror—. That guy with the tattoo on his arm looked like he had an interesting conversation in him. Though you seemed more interested in something else. It was starting to show when you were talking to him.

I felt the heat rising to my cheeks.

—It showed?

—Salva, we were naked. Everything showed. I don’t know if he noticed, but I did.

I laughed, half embarrassed, half excited to admit it. We had spent the afternoon at the nudist beach, three hours lying among bodies of every shape and age. And yes, a few specimens that caught the eye. The tattooed guy was one: in his forties, lean and wiry, with that tan of someone who has time to lie in the sun every day.

Every night she secretly reads on her phone, thinking I don’t notice. Stories about threesomes, about couples who share, about older women with younger men. And I read them too. And we both know it, even though we never say it.

—Have you read anything interesting lately? —I asked, testing the waters.

She went very still for a second. Then she smiled.

—A few days ago, one about a couple who stopped on the road. It reminded me of us.

—Oh, yeah? And what did this couple do?

—Let’s just say they didn’t get home as fast as they thought.

The air inside the car grew denser. Now she was looking at me openly. I kept my hands on the wheel, but my pulse had shot up.

—Maybe we should take a look —I said, my voice rougher than I meant it to be—. See what those roadside places everyone talks about are like.

—You really do know how to be subtle when you want to, Salva —she laughed.

—I’m a refined man.

—You’re a little pervert with a silver tongue.

—That too.

—I think I read on a forum —she continued, choosing her words carefully— that on Sunday afternoons, in certain rest areas, people don’t exactly stop to stretch their legs.

My throat went dry.

—And you just happen to remember the exact place. What a memory for a woman who loses her phone three times a day.

—It’s common knowledge, darling. They say it’s a very democratic place.

—Democratic. So they don’t ask for an ID at the entrance. Neither membership nor age.

—Exactly.

Her hand was still on my thigh, slowly sliding upward along the inside, nearing the edge of my swim trunks.

—And what are we looking for in that democracy, Reme? —I finally dared to ask—. Audience for you, or company for me?

Silence. The hula girl swayed on the dashboard. The air conditioning roared.

—Maybe a bit of both —she said softly—. You like being looked at, I know that already. But they say the guys in those places are bolder. That they don’t ask permission.

—That they go straight in.

—That’s it.

She’s saying it. She’s opening the door to what I’ve wanted for months, maybe years.

—And if they come up to you while I’m right there —I went on, choosing each word— maybe one of them gets confused and doesn’t know which one of us he’s provoking.

She let out a warm laugh, without mockery.

—They don’t get confused, you dummy. They know perfectly well that the prize is you, not the lady accompanying you. I’m the bait, right?

—You’re the treasure —I said, moved—. But yes, sometimes I like to think that if the bees come to the honey, one might sting me too. Do you mind?

She pulled her T-shirt up a little, revealing the bikini bottoms, the fabric outlining every curve. She fanned herself slowly with her hand.

—The only thing I mind is you leaving me alone with the wolves. If we stop, you and I are a team. If they touch, we touch. If they look, we look back. Always together. That’s not up for negotiation.

—Never up for negotiation.

Holy shit. We’re really going to do it.

***

We merged onto the highway with light traffic, Sunday afternoon, the occasional family car packed to the roof and trucks heading back north.

—Do you know where it is? —Reme asked.

—More or less. I read it was in the rest area, not the service area. No gas station, no lights, no security.

—Discreet.

—Exactly.

Though I’m not completely sure. I’ve only read vague mentions. And I may be confusing rest areas with service areas. Shit.

I saw the sign: “La Marina service area, 3 km.” I froze for a second.

—According to what I read —I said, trying to sound sure— it should be near the truck section. More discreet than the main parking lot.

Reme nodded. What she didn’t say out loud was the relief she felt. The rest areas, dark and secluded, scared her a little: strangers with no witnesses, no easy escape. But a service area, with lights and people nearby, seemed safer to her. Better that way, she thought. I understood that much later.

—Whatever you want, darling —she said aloud—. You drive.

I put on the turn signal. Click, click. The sound synced with my heartbeat. The hula girl swung her hips obscenely when the wheels grazed the rumble strip at the shoulder.

—If that doll raised her head... —Reme murmured.

—She’d applaud us.

—Or die of envy.

I took the exit. The service area appeared like an island of light: a Cepsa gas station with the pumps gleaming under the sodium lamps, a cafeteria with huge windows, families coming out with half-asleep children. Completely unsuitable for what we were looking for.

Too many people. Too many lights. I’ve got the wrong place.

I parked near the cafeteria, in the shade of some trees, and cut the engine.

—Well —I said, trying to sound casual—. Want to grab dinner?

Reme looked at me with a mix of amusement, relief and a hint of disappointment. But above all, tenderness.

—Sure. I’m starving.

We got out of the car. The heat wrapped around us like a wet blanket after the air conditioning. Reme stretched, arms above her head, and her T-shirt rode up, showing the bikini and the bronzed skin of her stomach.

A trucker smoking by the pumps turned his head and froze, cigarette halfway to his lips. A family man did the same until his wife elbowed him. Reme noticed it. A flicker of a smile appeared on her lips and she straightened her shoulders a little more.

***

The inside of the cafeteria was a brutal thermal shock, an almost glacial air conditioning, the smell of reheated coffee and stale frying oil. We sat by a window overlooking the parking lot.

—It’s like walking into a freezer —Reme said, rubbing her arms.

—Better than the hell outside.

The waitress came over with the face of existential exhaustion and took our order without looking up: salad, two hot sandwiches, sparkling water and a soft drink. She shuffled away.

I looked around. Families with hyperactive children, a young couple each glued to their own phone, a couple of lone truckers staring at the screen. Nobody was paying attention to us. Perfect.

And then he walked in. Tall, dark, early thirties. He towered over everyone in the place. Sun-bronzed in the way of someone who works outside, not someone who sprawls on a beach. Tattoos peeking out from the collar of a white T-shirt that clung to his shoulders. Athletic shorts. He moved with the easy confidence of someone who knows what he has, or doesn’t care about anything.

Reme had seen him too. Of course she had. The man ordered a coffee at the counter and exchanged a few words with the cashier about traffic and routes. Then he sat on a stool to wait.

—That guy looks like he’s packing well —Reme muttered.

I lifted an eyebrow.

—Packing? What exactly are you thinking about?

—His truck, obviously. He’ll need room for that much cargo. What did you think I meant?

—The same thing as you, probably.

That guy is exactly what I’ve been reading about for months. Young, athletic, self-assured. And those arms. Jesus Christ.

I kept looking longer than was socially acceptable. Reme watched me with a sly smile.

The food arrived steaming and we ate with real hunger, the kind that comes after an entire afternoon in the sun. Between bites, we both stole discreet glances toward the bar. The trucker took off his cap for a moment to wipe the sweat from the back of his neck and put it back on. Reme stopped chewing for half a second. I swallowed with difficulty.

The man looked up right then and caught us staring. He smiled. He winked at us. Then he finished his coffee, left some coins on the counter, and stood up to go.

And then, before fear could paralyze me, I did it.

—Hey, excuse me.

He turned, surprised.

—You seemed interesting. If you’ve got a little time before you hit the road again, would you like to sit with us?

He sized me up. Then he looked at Reme, who was smiling warmly, and at the empty seat. His mouth curved into a slow smile.

—Why not? I’ve got time to spare.

Southern accent, deep voice. He walked over to the table and sat on the bench beside Reme, across from me.

—Salva —I said, holding out my hand—. And this is Reme.

—Nando —he replied, shaking it. The handshake lasted half a second longer than normal. Direct eye contact. Something passed between us; I couldn’t say what, but it passed.

He kissed Reme on the cheek. She inhaled discreetly: clean sweat, diesel, cheap cologne, something young and musky.

He smells like a man. Raw. Interesting, she thought.

—Are you coming back from the beach? —Nando asked.

Reme pointed to the bikini under the T-shirt.

—Is it that obvious?

—A little. Guardamar?

—Agua Amarga —I said—. The nudist one.

He raised his eyebrows.

—Brave. I’ve never dared.

—It’s not about bravery —Reme leaned in, mischievous—. It’s about wanting to walk around naked.

He looked at her with renewed interest.

—Well, it seems like you really want to.

She’s flirting with him. In front of me. And I love it.

—And where are you from? —I asked.

—The port of Valencia. I’m taking a container to Cartagena. I stopped for dinner before carrying on.

—That’s quite a trip —Reme said.

—Like you two with that Corsa out there. I saw the sticker when I parked: “Twenty years on the road” and an old plate. No need to be smart to figure it out.

—Sharp eye.

—It’s the job. Watching roads, cars and people.

And he’s watching us. Very closely, Reme thought.

—And what do you notice about us? —she dared ask.

Nando didn’t hesitate.

—That you’re a couple that still looks for each other with their eyes. That there’s chemistry. Something I don’t see in most marriages after so many years.

—So many years? Is it that obvious? —I swallowed.

—That’s not a criticism. Couples who’ve been together for decades don’t even look at each other when they eat. You two can’t stop looking at each other. And looking around.

—And do you have a partner? —Reme asked.

—Nothing steady. The road doesn’t help. Occasional encounters, you know.

—What kind of encounters? —I lowered my voice.

He fixed his gaze on me.

—All kinds. Whatever the body asks for. Service areas, industrial estates... People look for company. So do I, sometimes.

The air turned electric.

—By the way —he added—, if you’re looking for the cruising area, this isn’t it. Too much light, too much surveillance.

I blushed.

—How...?

—You’re not the first people to get confused. The place is three kilometers back, in the rest area. No gas station, no lights, nobody.

Reme laughed nervously.

—Well, we were just...

—You don’t need to explain anything —he raised a hand—. I get it.

He knows. He knows exactly what we came for.

Reme was direct, as always. She’s the brave one, the one who crosses lines I only look at from afar.

—And if we weren’t looking for a cruising area? What if we just wanted to meet someone interesting?

She said it slowly, warmly, like someone offering coffee after dinner. In her mouth, the forbidden becomes ordinary.

—Like me? —he asked.

—Exactly like you.

I jumped in, nervous but aroused, my pulse pounding in my temples and lower down.

—What Reme means is that we like you. Yes, both of us.

Silence. Nando looked at us. First at me; his dark eyes traveled over me with a frankness that made my skin prickle. Then at her, and he lingered longer: on her breasts under the damp T-shirt, on her parted lips, on the shine in her eyes.

—Both of you? —he asked.

I nodded. My throat had closed up.

—Both of us —I managed to say.

He took a deep breath. I saw him weighing options, calculating risks, and I saw the exact moment he decided to go for it.

—I’ll be honest. I’ve never been with a man, only women. But I wouldn’t mind trying tonight. If it’s with you two.

He said it. He said it and didn’t back out. This is really going to happen.

I felt a mix of euphoria and panic. Reme squeezed my hand under the table, hard, because she felt the same thing: the disbelief of seeing a fantasy take shape in front of our eyes.

—Really? —she smiled, eyes bright.

—Really. You two are unique. So why not?

—Where? —my voice came out rough.

Nando thought for a moment.

—Not in the rest area. This time of night there could be others. But I know an industrial estate ten minutes from here. Old, with yellow lights, almost empty at night. We can park where the cameras don’t reach. Quieter than any rest area.

—And the Guardia Civil? —Reme asked, practical even though her eyes were shining.

—They pass sometimes, but they don’t stop if they don’t see anything weird. A truck with its lights off doesn’t draw attention. I’ve stopped there before. It’s safe.

Reme bit her lip and looked at me for confirmation. I nodded.

—And protection? —I asked.

—I’ve got condoms in the cab. And I’m clean, I had tests a month ago.

—We are too. Tests six weeks ago. And we’ll use condoms. Always.

—Always —I repeated—. That’s not up for negotiation.

—The rules are clear —he nodded.

The three of us looked at each other. The moment stretched.

—So, shall we meet there? —Nando said—. I’ll lead the way.

—Shall we go? —Reme looked at me.

—Let’s go.

***

I insisted on paying for dinner. We went out to the parking lot together. The sun was still high, though it had begun its slow descent, tinting everything with that intense gold of late afternoon. Nando was walking toward his truck, a huge red Volvo gleaming under the streetlamps just turned on. We headed for the Corsa.

I got in. Reme buckled her seat belt, and I noticed her hands trembled a little. I put the keys in the ignition, but I didn’t start the car.

—Are you sure? —I asked softly.

—Nervous —she admitted—. But yes. You?

I lifted her hand to my lips and kissed it.

—I’ve never been more sure. But if at any point you want to stop, we stop. No questions.

Something in her gaze, a mix of fear and determination I knew by heart, pierced my chest. She leaned in slowly and kissed me. A soft kiss at first, with no urgency, with that familiarity that contrasted with everything unknown waiting for us. Her tongue brushed mine for an instant, a fleeting contact that reminded me we were doing this together. That whatever happened in that cab, she would be with me.

She stroked my cheek with the back of her hand, her fingers tracing my two-day stubble, her thumb pausing at the corner of my lips as if she wanted to memorize every wrinkle time had left on my face.

—A whole lifetime together —she whispered— and you still surprise me.

—And you surprise me too.

—Then come on. Let’s go.

I started the car. The Corsa coughed and then purred. The hula girl swayed on the dashboard, chipped paint, faded skirt; but we were no longer the same people who had been given her as a gift. Ahead, the Volvo’s taillights came on.

We followed the truck toward the exit, back onto the highway, toward an industrial estate we hadn’t even known existed ten minutes before. Toward the unknown. Together, as always.

To be continued...