The Married Neighbor and the Dessert That Wasn’t on the Menu

There are encounters that seem written in advance, as if two people had been brushing against each other for months without ever touching until some ordinary weekend changes everything. That’s what happened to an acquaintance of mine, Adrián, and he told it to me in so much detail that I still don’t know whether he was bragging or needed to get it off his chest.

Back then he was twenty-two and lived in a student flat near the university. He was one of those guys whom nature had dealt a good hand: almost six foot three, tanned skin, dark hair hanging down past his ears, and honey-colored eyes that could undo you. He had a gym-built body and a boyish face that made it hard for anyone to guess his real age.

One Friday his roommates went off to their hometowns and he stayed behind to study for a Monday exam. He went down early to do the shopping, intending to lock himself in and not show his face all weekend. In the elevator he ran into Marisol, the neighbor from upstairs, who was coming down holding her little daughter’s hand.

“Good morning, neighbor. You’re up early,” she said, smiling.

“Yeah, I’m going to stock up and hole up at home. I’ve got an exam on Monday.”

“Oh, what a week you’ve got ahead of you. We’re off to camp, right, sweetheart? Well, she is; I’m just taking her to school and then we’re gone for two days.”

“Well, lucky you,” he said, winking at the little girl.

“I’m the lucky one,” she lowered her voice so the child wouldn’t hear. “My husband’s heading off with the older one to go fishing in his parents’ village in a couple of hours, so I’ve got the whole weekend to myself. Cleaning, tidying up, and breathing, because these past few months have been something else.”

“Then we’re both doing our thing. I’ve got hours of chair, desk, and lamp ahead of me.”

They each went their separate ways. Adrián shopped quickly, put everything away, and sat down to study with a discipline that lasted exactly until midmorning, when the doorbell rang. He got up in annoyance, looked through the peephole expecting a leaflet distributor, and found Marisol on the other side. He opened the door, of course.

“Hi, is something wrong?” he asked, worried.

“Nothing, man. Here, I brought you this so you don’t waste time cooking,” she said, holding out two containers. “Baked macaroni and some chicken fillets. They’re to die for.”

“But, Marisol, you didn’t have to…”

“Of course I did. I’d already made them and in the end they didn’t take them to the village,” she lied with a smoothness he didn’t catch. “Heat them up, eat, and back to your books. There.”

“You’re an angel, honestly. Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome. Get studying.”

Marisol got into the elevator and Adrián stayed at the doorway watching her longer than he should have. He had always found her attractive, even though she was about fifteen years older than him. That morning, for the first time, he really looked. The flowered dress outlined curves that seemed drawn on purpose, her chestnut, very curly hair fell over her shoulders, and when she turned to step into the elevator he discovered she had a body that didn’t fit the idea he’d formed of “the upstairs neighbor.”

Damn Marisol, he thought, and went back to his notes with a new and suspicious enthusiasm.

He studied with an odd concentration, ate in fifteen minutes because all he had to do was reheat the food, and by midafternoon, when he stopped for a snack, he heard noises upstairs. It was her, moving furniture and vacuuming. In those flats you could hear everything, and he knew it all too well.

When he sat back down at the table he realized he had almost finished what he’d planned to spread over the entire weekend. He didn’t know whether it was because of the time he’d saved in the kitchen or because of the smile Marisol had left stuck to his chest, but the fact was he was ahead of schedule. And with time to spare, his imagination took off. It flew high. And something inside his pants flew with it.

He had an idea. A crazy one, probably a terrible idea. But it got him so aroused that it lifted him from the chair, carried him out of the flat, and planted him in front of Marisol’s door before common sense could stop him. He knocked. And just then he began to suspect it might not be such a good idea after all, but it was too late.

“Hi, student. What can I do for you?” she asked when she opened the door.

Adrián went mute. Marisol had changed her dress for a white tank top and green shorts that revealed legs he hadn’t noticed before either. That sight, instead of making him back off, emboldened him.

“Nine o’clock,” he blurted out, his voice rough with nerves.

“Nine o’clock? What are you talking about?” she laughed, not understanding.

“Sorry. I mean, if you feel like having dinner at nine. Since you made lunch for me, I could make dinner.”

“But didn’t you have to…?”

“I already know almost everything. It’ll be good for me to switch off,” he cut in, regaining control of himself. “A couple of hours left. Plenty of time. What do you say?”

“Well, for once I’m not the one cooking,” she smiled, amused. “Go on then, okay.”

“Pizza and beer okay with you?”

“Quite the chef. Perfect, I’m very into pizza.”

“Nine o’clock then.”

“Nine o’clock. Study hard, sunshine,” and she closed the door.

Sunshine? Had she just called him sunshine? The effect of that word was immediate and brutal, so much so that it took him half an hour to come down from it and he seriously considered relieving the tension on his own. But between one thought and the next, time ran even faster than his imagination, and when he realized it, there was barely half an hour left. He went to the kitchen, assembled the pizza, put it in the oven, and rushed to the shower to wash off the smell of being cooped up under the lamp for so many hours.

He was coming out of the bathroom when they knocked again. It was nine oh five. He wrapped a towel around his waist, grabbed another to cover his torso, and once in the hall he regretted it: he didn’t want it to look as if he was showing off his body. He spoke through the door.

“One second! I was in the shower.”

“Relax, relax. Don’t open it naked,” she laughed from the other side.

“No, no, I’m not naked,” he stammered.

“Well open up, man, I’m not going to be scared.”

Not wanting to seem like a kid, he cracked the door open. Marisol, who was already turning back to her own apartment, came back on her heels, pretending to cover her eyes with her hand.

“I don’t want to see anything, eh,” she teased.

“I’ve got a towel on. Clothes. Towel,” he babbled.

She lowered her hand and looked him up and down without really bothering to hide it.

“Go on, finish getting dressed. I’m going to have a look at that pizza; it smells amazing.”

“Yeah, I put it in a while ago. Sorry about the mess, my roommates…”

“Relax, I lived in a student flat too. I wasn’t born a lady,” she said, and disappeared toward the kitchen.

***

While Adrián got dressed, Marisol took the pizza out of the oven, opened a beer, and decided it was a good time to poke around the apartment. She started, and how about that, with the bedrooms, with the not-at-all innocent intention of finding out what that towel was hiding that had quickened her pulse. She had spent months imagining that scene in the few moments of privacy her life allowed her, and she wasn’t about to waste the chance.

His bedroom was the only room with lights on, besides the bathroom. She crept up to the half-open door and saw more than she expected. Adrián, with his back turned, still damp, was awkwardly putting on deodorant. His legs, his defined back, all the things his everyday sweats had hidden from her for months. She watched him in silence, breathing hard, her pulse throbbing in places she would never mention. When he turned slightly and let her catch a glimpse of what the towel had concealed, Marisol decided that tonight there would be dessert, no matter what he said. She stepped back on tiptoe and went to the living room to pretend she was setting the table.

“I’ve taken the pizza out already! Are you nearly done? It’s getting cold,” she said, smiling to herself at her own wickedness.

“I’m ready!” he answered, unaware of the spying.

He appeared wearing worn jeans, a plain white T-shirt, and house slippers. Nothing special, and yet for Marisol it was enough to imagine him a thousand different ways.

They ate dinner and talked about the usual things: her job, his exams, how little either of them rested. An easy conversation flowed between beers and increasingly less disguised signals. At some point, trust weighed more than caution.

“Well, and for dessert?” she tested, enjoying her advantage.

“What I told you. There’s fruit,” he answered, more in his element now. “Although…”

“Although?”

“You know, when I have dinner with a girl, the answer to that question is usually ‘you’ve got it right in front of you.’ But with you, I think that wouldn’t be appropriate to say.”

“No? Why? Do you see me as some old lady?” she bristled.

“It’s not that. It’s just that I want you so badly that if you tell me yes, I’m afraid I won’t know how to stop,” he said, holding her gaze with a calm that left her speechless.

“Wow. I think you’re mistaken,” she tried to sound sure of herself, almost disdainful.

“Maybe. Maybe at your age you couldn’t keep up with me. You’re right, better a drink and we’ll leave dessert alone,” and he fell silent again and looked at her mouth.

“You’re quite the cheeky bastard, Adrián. Does that routine work on the girls you usually go around with?”

“Honestly, yes, although I don’t usually have to try this hard. But you’re different.”

“Why? Surprise me.”

“Because none of the others ever pretended so badly not to like what they were seeing. Did you like it earlier, while I was changing?”

“What…?” she began, but he had already stood up and was heading to the kitchen, leaving her with the words stuck in her mouth.

Those were eternal seconds. The kid from downstairs, the one who had had her crazy for months, was teasing her, and badly. And she loved it. She got up, feigning normality, and followed him with the rest of the plates. When she went into the kitchen, he was rummaging in the fridge.

“Look, we already have dessert,” he said, closing the door and turning toward her.

“What is that?”

He didn’t give her time to say more. He took her by the hand, led her to the living room, sat her on the sofa, and, standing in front of her, showed her what he’d been hiding: a can of whipped cream. He brought it to her lips and waited. One second, two, and Marisol opened her mouth. He squeezed and a stream went in, another stayed outside, and she stuck out her tongue to catch it.

“No, wait. That part’s mine. We have to share.”

Adrián leaned down slowly. Marisol hesitated about whether to let him or not, and then she did. His lips brushed hers with a softness she hadn’t expected, unhurried, almost tender, and then he pulled back a few centimeters, both of them breathing differently now.

“Keep going,” she asked.

And he did. This time with more need, with less control, until their tongues found each other in a dance that seemed rehearsed, too coordinated for a first kiss, as if months of silent desire had prepared the ground. From there on, time stopped mattering and everything else stayed outside those four walls.

***

They kissed on their knees, he facing her, their hands growing more impatient by the second. When he straightened because the position was uncomfortable, she took advantage to grab his belt, undo the button, and pull down the zipper without taking her eyes off him. What she found brought out a hungry smile. She reached for the can of cream, coated it, and began to run her tongue along it from one end to the other, slowly, thoroughly cleaning it, until his body started to tense.

“Stop, stop…” he begged.

But she sped up, deeper, faster, until Adrián let go in shudders, standing up, gripping the back of the sofa. Marisol didn’t ease up until the end. Then she let him go, leaned back, hiked up the skirt of the dress she’d put on downstairs, removed her underwear, and raised her legs, offering herself with a shamelessness that left him breathless.

“Your dessert. Enjoy it.”

He huffed with a wicked look on his face. Far from having lost steam, he was still just as hard. He knelt and returned the favor, slowly, playing with rhythms and pauses, alternating the tip of his tongue with its full length, giving pleasure time to build.

“Keep going, keep going, for God’s sake, I’m going to come,” she panted, pressing a cushion against her mouth to muffle the cry.

She came apart in spasms, with his hand still moving over her gently as she came to herself again.

“Okay, student, you can stop… thank you.”

“No thanks. We’ve only just started.”

When he got to his feet, Marisol understood what he meant: he had managed to protect himself while finishing the job, and now he was asking to continue. She smiled, settled herself, and winked.

“I expected nothing less. Come here.”

There were no more words. She made room on the sofa, guided him with practiced skill, and with one firm push took him all the way in. They both moaned and stayed still for a moment, savoring it, before starting a gentle rocking that grew with every thrust. Marisol answered with her hips, her breathing growing shorter and shorter.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop, I’m going to come again,” she begged, digging her nails into his back.

And she came with gasps and half-formed words until he stopped when he felt her asking for calm.

“Damn… I need more,” she said, coming back to herself.

She pushed him away, sat him on the sofa, and climbed on top of him with new ferocity, riding him without mercy while he held her by the hips and helped her sink deeper. They didn’t take long to finish at the same time, amid moans, affectionate insults, and one last long, messy kiss that left them stuck to each other, spent.

They lay still for a while, getting their bearings back. Then they opened another beer, confessed between laughs how long they’d been wanting each other in silence, and found each other a couple more times that same night. They agreed to do it again whenever they could, without complications or promises.

Did they keep it up? Truth is, I don’t know. Adrián never told me how the story continued, and I never asked again. I suspect so. But who knows. What do you think would have happened?