The Married Neighbor Who Came Up to Test My Projector
Mariana was twenty-nine, had a spotless studio apartment on the eighth floor, and a home theater projector she had used three times in two years. She had bought it on a burst of enthusiasm, convinced it would transform her nights. In the end, she wound up watching series on her phone, lying on her side, with the white screen hanging on the wall like a reproach.
So she put it up for sale. She posted the photo in the building’s neighbors’ group and in her work chat, with a short, direct message.
“Selling full HD projector, barely used, immaculate. $150,000 or interesting swaps considered. Pick up in the building. More photos by private message.”
The replies came right away, and almost all of them were useless: emojis, jokes, ridiculous offers from people who had no intention of buying it. She was about to mute the group when a private message came in.
It was from Esteban, apartment 8A. The one next door.
“Hi, Mariana. I saw the listing in the group. I’m your wall neighbor, the guy in 8A. Is it still available? If it works for you, I can come see it sometime this week. Best,”
She replied almost without thinking.
“Yes, it’s still available. Does tomorrow afternoon work? Around seven.”
“Perfect. I’ll be there at seven.”
***
The next day, at five past seven, the doorbell rang. Mariana had changed her T-shirt twice without fully admitting why.
Esteban came in with a calm smile, the kind of composure you don’t learn in your twenties. Linen shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows, discreet cologne, a gold wedding band catching the hallway light. He was fifty-two, with silver at his temples and big hands that moved without hurry. She took it all in at once: the deep voice, the way he looked her in the eye when he greeted her, the self-assurance of someone who had long since stopped being in a rush.
“Come in, I’ve got it set up in the living room,” she said, and stepped aside.
The projector sat on the coffee table, the cable coiled next to it and the screen still unfurled on the wall. Esteban leaned in to look closely, ran a finger over the lens, checked the connectors with the attention of someone who knows what he’s looking for.
“It’s like new,” he commented. “Why are you selling it, if I may ask?”
“I don’t use it,” Mariana admitted, arms crossed, leaning against the back of the sofa. “I work late, and when I get home I prefer something else. Something quieter.”
He lifted his gaze, a half-smile on his face.
“Something quieter? You’ve got me thinking.”
She laughed, a little nervously.
“A glass of wine, a book, going to bed early. The glamorous life of living alone.”
Esteban straightened up.
“Do you want to try it before you decide? That way you can make sure everything works. I brought a USB stick with a couple of test videos, if you don’t mind.”
Mariana hesitated for a second. Then she nodded.
“Sure. Let’s hook it up.”
***
The two of them plugged in the cable and aimed the projector at the wall. She lowered the blinds so the image would show better, and the living room fell into half-darkness. They sat on the sofa, side by side, a little closer than the sofa really required. Esteban put on a landscape video: waves breaking in slow motion, mountains, saturated colors flooding the white wall.
“Look at that sharpness,” he said, leaning forward.
Mariana leaned in too. Their shoulders brushed, and neither of them moved away.
“It’s better than I remembered,” she murmured.
They talked while the video went on. About the building, the elevator that had been under repair for a month, how nosy the neighbors’ group was. At one point he asked, almost casually:
“How long have you been living alone?”
“A couple of years. At first I missed having someone else’s noise around the house. Now I love the silence. Nobody telling me what to watch or what time to come home.”
Esteban nodded slowly, looking at the lit wall.
“I understand more than it seems. There’s noise at home, but not always the good kind. My wife goes to bed early and I stay up. Sometimes I watch something on my own. Sometimes I just stare at the ceiling and think.”
“Think about what?” Mariana asked, turning her body a little toward him.
He looked at her steadily, not smiling now.
“About the things I miss. About how everything felt when it was just beginning. That sort of electricity you have without even looking for it.”
The video kept playing, waves crashing silently against the wall, but neither of them was looking at the screen anymore.
Mariana felt her pulse in her neck.
“And you never tried to get it back?” she asked softly.
“No,” he said. “But right now I feel like I could.”
She didn’t pull away. She only moistened her lips.
***
Esteban lifted a hand and brushed her arm with the back of his fingers. It was a light touch, almost an excuse. Mariana didn’t move. He came a little closer, until their knees touched in the blue-tinged glow of the projector.
“Does that bother you?” he asked.
“No,” she whispered.
The first kiss came slowly, just lips finding and testing each other. Mariana responded by leaning into him and resting a hand on his thigh. The second kiss was no longer cautious. Their tongues met, their breathing mixed, and he held the back of her neck with one large hand while the other slid down her back to her waist.
They broke apart for a second, both of them breathless.
“Do you want me to stop?” he asked, his voice rough.
She shook her head and kissed him again, this time swinging herself onto his lap. Esteban took her hips and guided her so she would move slowly against him, against the hardness already pressing under his trousers.
“No rush,” he murmured against her neck. “I want you slow.”
He took off her T-shirt with calm precision and kissed her shoulders, her collarbone, working his way down to her breasts. Mariana let out a soft moan when he bit gently, and she unbuttoned his shirt, trailing her nails across his chest and down to his belt. Each button was a decision already made.
He lifted her just enough to lay her back on the sofa. In one patient movement he slid down her pants and underwear, kissing every inch of skin as it was exposed: her stomach, the insides of her thighs, until he knelt on the floor in front of her. He spread her legs and ran his tongue over her, slowly, in precise circles, with the patience of someone who enjoys giving as much as receiving. Mariana arched her back and buried her fingers in his hair, not holding back her moans.
She came like that, trembling, repeating his name into the silence of the apartment.
***
When she caught her breath, she pulled him back up and finished undoing his belt. She stroked him while looking into his eyes, slowly, until he let out a restrained grunt.
“I want to feel you,” she said.
She settled back on top of him, guided him with her hand, and sank down little by little, feeling him fill her centimeter by centimeter. They both held their breath at the same time. They started with a slow, deep rhythm; he set the tempo with firm hands on her hips, and she rotated her pelvis, searching for the exact angle that made her moan louder.
The kisses became urgent. Soft bites on the neck, nails on the back, half-finished words neither of them ever completed. The rhythm climbed without either of them deciding it. Mariana felt the second orgasm approaching like a wave, and Esteban held her tight and drove up into her again and again until they broke almost at the same time: him emptying himself with a long groan, her clinging to him with her whole body.
They stayed wrapped in each other, sweaty, while the projector kept painting forgotten landscapes on the wall.
***
They spent a few minutes in silence, getting their breath back. Then Esteban kissed her forehead.
“I think I’m taking it,” he said, with a tired smile, nodding toward the projector—“but only if you let me come back to test it again… and test you again.”
Mariana smiled, still pressed against his chest.
“Take it,” she replied. “But bring the USB stick again. And next time stay longer.”
He gave a soft laugh, gave her one last slow kiss, and started getting dressed without hurry, the way he did everything. Mariana watched him button his shirt in the dim light, the wedding band shining again on his finger, and she didn’t feel guilty. She only felt that the silence in her apartment would no longer seem quite so quiet.
The projector changed hands that night. And both of them knew it wasn’t the only thing that had just changed walls.
