The Mature Coworker Who Challenged Me in the Changing Room

My name is Rubén, and for several years I worked in maintenance and as a gardener at a retirement home on the outskirts of Granada. There I met a lot of coworkers, because almost the entire staff was made up of women. My job was to keep the place spotless: fix what broke, trim the garden, change lightbulbs, and I also drove when we had to take the residents on outings or to activities.

The first few years I was single, and I admit that where there’s trust and dead time, affection arises. I had my run-ins with more than one coworker, and even with some of the student trainees who passed through the center each season. I never told anyone anything, but the walls had ears and the hallways talked.

The person I got along with best was Lorena, a caregiver who was around forty-five and had a son almost my age. She was one of those women who aren’t weighed down by years, but have earned them: a calm gaze, steady hands, and a laugh that sounded like someone who was no longer afraid of anything.

We ate together almost every day in the staff room. Then we’d go down to the back patio to smoke a cigarette, leaning against the warm wall, and that was our time. She’d tease me wickedly about one coworker or another, pretending to be nosy like an aunt, and I’d play dumb.

—You never tell me anything, but I know everything —she’d say, taking a drag from her cigarette and narrowing her eyes.

—There’s nothing to tell —I’d जवाब.

—Sure. And I was born yesterday.

That was our dynamic. She tested the waters, I slipped away, and we both laughed. It never went beyond that for a long time, though something in the air between us had been charging with electricity for months without either of us saying it out loud.

One August day, with a heat that was melting the asphalt in the parking lot, I was in the maintenance room putting tools in order. I’d taken off my uniform shirt because the fan couldn’t keep up. I didn’t hear her come in.

—Well, well —said Lorena from the doorway, arms crossed—. If I’d arrived a minute earlier, I’d have caught you naked.

I turned around sharply. At that time I trained a lot and was in good shape, and honestly I didn’t mind being seen like that. What unsettled me was the way she looked at me: from head to toe, without hiding it, with that smile that wasn’t entirely a joke.

—Want me to help you look for something? —I said, trying to look dignified as I reached for my shirt.

—Don’t cover yourself up for me, man. I’m old enough.

Old enough. That word kept spinning around in my head the rest of the afternoon.

***

With that teasing, we held out for several more weeks. She tossed out the innuendo, I tossed it back, and the smokers’ patio became a minefield of half-finished sentences. Until the day of the pool came.

Once a month we took a group of residents to a nearby indoor pool so they could do gentle exercises in the water. That day Lorena was there as a caregiver and I was there as the driver, and not only did we have to accompany them: we had to get into the water with them and help them with every movement.

I, who’m no fool, brought a swimsuit that was a lot tighter than it should have been. I did it on purpose, to see if I could get her to say something. And did I ever.

When I came out of the changing room and she saw me, a nervous laugh escaped her that didn’t suit her at all. She bit her lip, looked away, and then looked me over twice more.

—My God, Rubén. Is that regulation? —she asked, pretending to be scandalized.

—It’s what was clean —I lied, shrugging.

—Yeah, sure.

We spent the morning in the warm water, holding the residents around the waist while they moved their legs, counting repetitions, laughing at Don Emilio’s remarks, because even in his eighties he was still a ladies’ man. But every time I caught Lorena’s eye, she was already looking at me. And she looked away a split second too late.

When the session ended, we got the residents out of the water and started helping them dress. She handled the women and I handled the men. One by one we took them out of the changing room and sat them on the terrace in the sun so they could dry off and wait for the rest.

Until, without realizing it, only she and I were left. There was no one else, neither in the changing room nor anywhere in the pool. Only the dripping of the showers and the echo of still water.

***

We were both soaked, with our street clothes waiting on the benches. I felt brave because of the swimsuit, because of the whole morning of looks, because of all those months of cigarettes and half-spoken words.

—Hey —I said, half joking—, are you coming to the shower with me or what?

I said it expecting one of her usual zingers in reply. For her to send me packing with laughter and for that to be the end of it. But Lorena went quiet for a second, put the towel on the bench, and walked toward me.

—Come on —she said, just like that.

My breath caught. We stepped together under the warm spray, into one of those little cubicles with old tile and a half-hanging curtain. The water ran over her tied-up hair, down her neck, over her shoulders. And then, without drama or haste, she took off her swimsuit in front of me.

I hadn’t expected that. I thought it would be another one of her jokes pushed to the limit, that she’d laugh and turn around. But no. She stayed there, in front of me, looking at me with a confidence only the years can give. Her body wasn’t a girl’s body, and that was precisely why I liked it so much: it had history, it had real curves, it had the calm of someone who knows her own worth.

—And now what? —I murmured, my voice rougher than I intended.

In answer, she bent down and yanked my swimsuit down to my ankles. When she straightened up, she’d already noticed the obvious: I was hard as a rock, and there was no way to pretend otherwise.

—Well —she said softly, with half a smile—. So it was true about the swimsuit.

She brushed me with her hand, slowly, as if checking something, and then looked me in the eyes. I moved a wet strand of hair out of her face and kissed her. I’d been imagining that kiss for months, and it was even better than any version in my head: slow at first, then hungry, with water falling over us and steam fogging the tiles.

Her hands ran over my chest, my back, while mine moved down her stomach. I felt her shiver when I touched her between the legs, and the sound that escaped her against my mouth was the most exciting thing of the whole morning.

I lifted her in my arms, grabbing her by the thighs, pressing her against the cold wall. She wrapped her legs around my waist and held on to my shoulders. For a moment we stayed like that, looking at each other, with the decision hanging between us.

—Wait, wait —she said suddenly, letting out a breathless laugh—. Not here, you fool. If someone walks in on us, we’re done for.

She gave me a quick kiss, wriggled out of my arms in one smooth movement, and stepped out of the shower laughing like a teenager, leaving me stuck to the tile with my heart racing. The next time I saw her she was already dressed, combing her hair in front of the mirror as if nothing had happened, although the blush in her cheeks gave her away.

—You’re not telling anyone about this —she warned me, pointing at me with the comb—. Especially not the trainee girls.

—Look who’s talking about discretion —I replied.

We both laughed. But nothing was the same anymore.

***

That same afternoon, after taking the residents back to the center and clocking out, she invited me to her place “for a glass of wine.” She lived in a small, bright apartment, with plants on the balcony and photos of her son on the walls. She poured two glasses, put on some quiet music, and sat next to me on the sofa as if we’d been doing that for years.

It didn’t take us long to pick up where the shower had left off. There, with no rush and no fear of anyone coming in, it was different. She led me by the hand into the bedroom, took off her clothes with the same naturalness as before, and let me discover her slowly, centimeter by centimeter, without the urgency of a tiled cubicle.

Lorena knew exactly what she wanted and wasn’t embarrassed to ask for it. She guided me with her hands, with her words, with her breathing. And when we finally came together completely, she did it looking me in the eyes, with that smile of hers that had been driving me crazy for months. I promise you it was one of the best nights of my life, and not because of gymnastics or acrobatics, but because of the trust of doing it with someone who laughs with you while she’s doing it.

We stayed up late, smoking by the open window, just like in the center’s patio but without uniforms and without secrets.

—You know what I liked most about you? —she told me, resting against my shoulder—. That you never told anyone anything. That drove me crazy.

—And you, driving me up the wall.

—That too —she admitted, laughing.

***

Lorena was divorced at the time. Over time she remarried, rebuilt her life, and I left the retirement home job to move to another city. But for years we kept having our little getaways: a coffee that ended at her place, a message sent at odd hours, an afternoon stolen from the calendar.

I never put a name to what we had. No need. She was a woman who taught me that real desire doesn’t understand age or hurry, and that sometimes the best things begin with a shared cigarette and a joke that gets out of hand.

Every time I pass by an indoor pool and smell chlorine, I go back to that empty changing room, to the warm spray, and to that laugh that ran barefoot across the tiles. And I smile, because I know that she, somewhere, remembers too.