My counselor locked the door that afternoon

It was Wednesday at noon when I went up to the fourth floor of the faculty for my appointment with the counselor, as I did every week since the start of my final year of the degree program. I arrived on time, just like always, because they let me leave seminar early to make the slot. When I got there, someone was still inside, so I sat down in one of the armchairs in the small reception area and waited with my backpack on my knees.

After a few minutes, the guy who had been in her office came out, and behind him she appeared. Renata was wearing a blouse with a lower neckline than usual and a straight skirt that hugged her hips. Her heels gave her walk a sharp, deliberate sway. I, on the other hand, had on my usual clothes: jeans, a plain shirt, and a worn-out pair of sneakers. Nothing flashy, nothing that would stand out next to her.

—Come in, Mariana —she said, stepping aside to let me in.

She closed the door behind us and, without my really noticing, slid the bolt. It was so no one would interrupt the session, I told myself. Even so, the dry click of the lock sent a shiver through me. I couldn’t help glancing toward her neckline, where the fabric opened just a little; I looked away as soon as I realized what I was doing.

We sat down, her opposite me, and she started with the usual questions. How I was doing in my classes, whether I was sleeping well, whether I had spoken to anyone in my group. I answered while she took notes in her notebook. At some point she was only writing, and silence settled between us. My eyes drifted around the room: no picture frames, no family photos, no ring on her left hand. She lived alone, I guessed. And again, without meaning to, my gaze ended up on the line of her neckline.

—I’ve noticed some changes over these past few weeks —she said, and I jerked my eyes up—. You’ve come a long way. You’re not the same girl who walked through that door on the first day without daring to look at me. But your professors keep telling me you hardly socialize. You should. It’s your last year; it would be nice if you made some good memories before it ends.

—I know —I replied, watching her rise from the armchair opposite mine to sit beside me—. It’s just that I still find it hard. It’s… that’s why I don’t get close to people.

—What’s wrong? —she asked softly—. You got nervous as soon as I sat down next to you.

I felt her hand settle on my thigh, over the fabric of my pants.

—A little —I whispered, turning my face toward her.

She was too close. My breathing sped up before I could control it. Her perfume filled everything, sweet and warm, and suddenly every detail of her face seemed vivid: the curve of her mouth, a small mark beside her eye, the way she looked at me without blinking.

—I noticed —she said—. I felt your eyes before you came in too. And in the previous sessions. You’re not as subtle as you think.

I wanted to say something, to defend myself, but no sound came out.

—You don’t have to be embarrassed —she went on, bringing her face a little closer to mine—. It happens to me too. I like having you here every Wednesday. I like it more than I should.

This can’t be happening.

Her hand moved a little higher up my leg, a slow motion, almost a question. My skin prickled beneath my clothes and I realized, with a mixture of shame and desire, that my body was responding before my mind. Having her this close felt good. Too good.

Her mouth brushed my ear when she spoke again, and the warm air of her voice ran down the back of my neck.

—You’re so pretty it’s hard not to want you near —she said—. Tell me you feel it too. Tell me, and it goes no further than this if you don’t want it to.

I swallowed. For months I had been building that scene in my head, in classes I wasn’t listening to, on nights when I lay staring at the ceiling. Different versions of the same thing: her and me, that office, that locked door. And now it was really happening.

—I want you —I finally admitted, in a thread of a voice—. I’ve wanted you since the first day.

That was enough. Renata closed the distance and pressed her lips to mine. It was a clumsy kiss on my part, because I had never kissed a woman and my hands didn’t know where to rest, but she guided me without hurry, setting the rhythm, parting her mouth just enough for me to follow. I learned fast. The clumsiness turned into something firmer, more mine.

One of my hands ended up on her chest, over her blouse, feeling the firmness beneath the fabric. Hers slid around my waist and down to my hip, pressing me against the back of the armchair. Every caress felt unreal and, at the same time, was the most tangible thing I had felt in a long time. It wasn’t a lie that I wanted her. I had wanted her in silence for months, imagining myself stretched across the desk in that same office, or held against the wall while no one knew what was happening behind the door.

The kiss deepened. I bit her lower lip without meaning to and heard her laugh against my mouth, a low sound that turned me on even more. Her hand moved from my hip to the hem of my shirt and her fingers found a strip of bare skin. I drew in a sharp breath.

—Easy —she murmured—. We have time. Not that much, though.

I didn’t understand that last sentence until a small clock on her desk started ringing: the signal that the session had ended. The chime shattered the moment like a bucket of water. Renata pulled away from me slowly, her eyes bright and a smear of lipstick at one corner of her mouth.

—Not bad, Mariana —she said, running her thumb over my lip to wipe away a bit of her lipstick—. Though now I’m going to leave wanting more. This was left half-done.

—My next appointment isn’t until next Wednesday —I whispered, still breathless, as if someone might hear us on the other side of the door.

She shook her head. She stood up, adjusted her skirt and blouse with a composure I was nowhere near having, and walked to the desk. She picked up her notebook and held it out to me with a pen.

—Write down your number —she said—. I’ll text you later. I’m not waiting a week.

I nodded and wrote the digits with a slightly trembling hand. When I gave the notebook back, I stood up and straightened my clothes, still dazed by what had just happened. She came closer again and I froze, not knowing what to do, while she pressed a brief, soft kiss to my lips.

—I hope you answer me —she said against my mouth—. And now go, you’re late for class.

I smiled at her. She stroked my cheek with the back of her hand and, as if nothing had happened, touched up her lipstick in a small pocket mirror. Then she opened the door and walked me to the hallway, professional again, as if the woman who had kissed me seconds earlier were someone else.

Once outside, I felt like I could breathe again. The corridor was full of students coming and going, completely oblivious to what had just happened in that office. I walked among them with slightly weak legs, replaying every second: the click of the bolt, her perfume, her hand moving up my leg, the way she said my name.

My body was still burning, and I knew I would have to wait until I got home to calm what she had awakened. But for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel alone or invisible. I took my phone out of my pocket and stared at it without letting go, waiting for the message she had promised me, counting the minutes until I saw her again.