The Teacher I Went to Silence Kissed Me

She was born in Ambato, but had lived in Quito since before she met Andrés, her husband, devoted father of their two young children, Tomás and Renata. Despite two pregnancies back to back in barely three years, Carolina had kept a figure her friends envied and strangers stared at on the street a little longer than was decent. She was sweet, sometimes almost childlike, but flirtatious in just the right measure, and reserved for her husband and special occasions the only dose of sensuality she allowed herself to show.

Andrés had never once felt the shadow of jealousy. They were a practicing Catholic couple, and his Caro was an active member of small traditionalist associations, handing out anti-abortion leaflets and giving talks on the value of the heterosexual family. Besides, things worked in bed. They had been together almost ten years and still laughed when they undressed. The idea of her being unfaithful struck her husband as simply absurd.

They had booked a hotel room for the night of September 22, their anniversary. They would spend the afternoon with the children, then Carolina would stop by the school for an unavoidable meeting, and by nightfall they would meet in the room to burn off in each other’s bodies the desire built up over the week. That, at least, was what Andrés had planned. The night, however, did not go as he would have wanted.

Carolina dressed carefully. A fitted yellow dress, ending a finger’s width above the knee and showing the firm muscle of her thighs. The neckline, generous but not vulgar, barely revealed the upper curve of her breasts. Standing in front of the mirror, she turned, and her silhouette formed that guitar shape her husband liked so much: short waist, wide hips, straight back. It was impossible to look at her and not want her.

They had lunch, the four of them, at a downtown restaurant. Afterward, she kissed the children, said goodbye to Andrés with a wink, and got into the car headed for the school. She wasn’t going out of sincere interest, but out of ideological commitment: the administration had proposed including talks on gender and diversity in the year’s plan, and Carolina intended to make it clear, along with the other mothers on the committee, that that had no place in her children’s school.

She entered the classroom and sat in front, demurely, with a thin scarf covering her neckline. The room smelled of old chalk and reheated coffee. She waited for the person responsible for the proposal to appear, and when she finally walked in, she felt a blow in her stomach. It was a tall woman, with delicate features, dyed electric-blue hair falling to her shoulders. She wore wide-leg trousers, a shirt buttoned all the way up, and worn leather boots.

That she was a feminist she knew in five seconds. She fixed Carolina with a cold, hateful stare and didn’t look away for a full hour. While the other woman spoke —about respect, identities, anti-harassment prevention— Carolina studied her from head to toe. Without fully thinking it through, at some point she crossed her right leg over her left, slowly, and a little later let the scarf fall onto the table, as if by accident. The two of them looked at each other. The teacher kept speaking without taking her eyes off her. In the end, Carolina exploded.

The argument was bitter. The other mothers nodded, stayed quiet, or looked at their phones. When it became clear there was no possible agreement, the teacher dismissed the group and asked Carolina to stay, saying she preferred to finish the conversation in private. Carolina agreed, jaw clenched, and remained seated, red-faced, waiting for the room to empty.

When no one was left, the teacher —her name was Valeria— resumed the conversation in a low, almost patient voice. Carolina answered in monosyllables. The tension was still there, but some of the anger had cooled. They didn’t reach any concrete conclusion. Carolina stood up, put on her jacket, and left without saying goodbye.

***

That night there was no anniversary. In the hotel, Andrés waited with a bottle of wine that he ended up drinking alone. Carolina arrived late, said she had a headache, got into bed fully dressed, and fell asleep with her back to him. Or pretended to fall asleep. In reality she spent hours going over the argument, Valeria’s words, the way she had looked at her when dismissing the group, the violent blue of her hair.

The following days made it worse. She couldn’t get that woman out of her head. She hated her, she repeated to herself, she hated her with all her strength. One morning, without thinking too much about it, she called the school office and asked for the teacher’s private contact information. They told her they didn’t give out personal data, but they passed along a message. That same afternoon she had the number.

They started texting. Valeria, in a tone Carolina couldn’t quite read, suggested they meet after class, in an empty classroom, to review the program materials together. A sort of private seminar, she offered, so the two of them could talk “without an audience.” Carolina agreed.

Strange thing: for that first date she put on a dress similar to the yellow one, but a little looser and a finger shorter, this time in dark red. She looked in the mirror longer than necessary. She put on lipstick and undid the second button. She didn’t want to ask herself why.

They met. Valeria spread papers out on the desk, spoke calmly, cited authors, offered readings. Carolina took notes, pretended to concentrate, felt her heart in her throat. Before saying goodbye, the teacher, almost out of nowhere, remarked that the dress looked beautiful on her. Just that. A compliment. Carolina felt her face burn right up to her ears.

A few days later she wrote asking for another class. She didn’t understand some concepts very well, she lied. Valeria agreed: same time, same classroom. It was Thursday; she had plans with Andrés. She canceled them without giving any explanation. This time she wore blue, a fitted dress that showed everything. Valeria, that afternoon, didn’t hold back: she told her she had legs that were distracting, that it was a shame she hid them under those matronly skirts.

The weeks passed. The classes multiplied. They saw each other two, three times a week. They talked about theory, politics, each one’s childhood, Valeria’s failed marriages, Carolina’s dull boredom. Sometimes, without either of them pointing it out, their hands brushed on the table and neither of them pulled away.

***

One Sunday afternoon, Carolina texted first. She was alone at home —the children with their grandparents, Andrés at a work meeting— and asked Valeria to see her that same day. The teacher replied within a minute with the address of her apartment.

Carolina put on the red dress from the first time. But this time, underneath, she chose a very thin thong, almost nonexistent. She covered everything with a long coat, looked at herself in the mirror, refused to think about what she was doing, and left before she could change her mind.

Valeria’s apartment was in an old building downtown, full of plants, books, and records. It smelled of sandalwood and coffee. They talked on the sofa for a long while, in low voices, almost whispers. Valeria, bolder than ever, stroked her hand, then her forearm, then her knee. Every time she said something, her eyes dropped for a second to Carolina’s mouth before rising again.

At last, Carolina stood up and suggested they rest for a moment. Valeria settled back on the sofa. Carolina went to the bathroom, stared at herself in the mirror for a long time, splashed cold water on the back of her neck. When she came out, she found the other woman stretched out, waiting for her. She held her gaze, loosened her coat, let it fall to the floor, and pulled her dress up a little over her hips.

Valeria understood. She stood up, came over with a sudden movement, held her chin in her hand, and kissed her. She kissed her as if she’d been thinking about it for weeks. Maybe she had.

They kissed like two women who had been holding back the same thing for a long time. Valeria lifted her dress to her waist, squeezed her bare ass with both hands, and let out a small laugh against her mouth.

“Did you wear this for me?” she murmured.

Carolina nodded without speaking.

Her breasts were exposed immediately. Valeria kissed them slowly, bit them carefully, licked them until she made her tremble. Carolina barely recognized herself. She was a new woman, frightened and happy, hearing herself moan from far away.

They moved to the bedroom. Carolina’s phone buzzed a couple of times on the nightstand —probably Andrés— and she threw it to the floor without looking. Valeria laid her down carefully, kissed her neck, her belly, the hip bone, the inside of her thighs. When she lowered her head between her legs and her tongue sank into the place no one had ever sought her out like that before, Carolina covered her mouth with both hands so she wouldn’t scream.

“I’ve been dreaming about this for months,” she said when she could speak.

Valeria smiled and stood up. She opened a low drawer in the dresser and took out a harness with a thick dildo. She adjusted it with the natural ease of someone who had done it many times. Carolina, without being asked, lay down on her stomach, ass raised, face buried in the pillow.

She fucked her slowly at first, then hard. Over and over. Their hips collided with a dull sound, the sheets wrinkled, the headboard hit the wall twice. Carolina heard her own voice begging for more. Andrés had never taken her like that. Not even close.

Then it was Carolina who rolled onto her back, spread her legs, and drew Valeria over herself. She wanted to look her in the eyes. She kissed her with desperation every time she managed to catch her mouth. They ended up both soaked, wrapped around each other, laughing softly like teenagers. They fell asleep that way, one on top of the other, until the cold of dawn woke them.

***

In the following weeks Carolina was barely at home. Her “friendship” with Valeria —that was how she referred to her with Andrés— filled every afternoon and many nights. They made love with an urgency Carolina had never allowed herself before. The way she dressed changed. So did her opinions. She stopped going to committee meetings, started wearing loose trousers, shirts left partially unbuttoned, canvas sneakers.

Andrés took longer than was reasonable to suspect. When he did, it was too late. One ordinary night, without a scene, Carolina left two packed suitcases by the door, explained what was strictly necessary, kissed the children asleep, and went to live with Valeria. She never again set foot in a Catholic meeting. Months later, the children visited her on weekends in the apartment full of plants, books, and records, and learned to call the blue-haired woman who lived with their mother Vale.