The Ruzafa Neighbor Who Had Never Felt Anything

Marisa was one of those women who go unnoticed in the market queue until, suddenly, you realize she has a body her husband never really learned to look at. Thirty-eight years old, married since she was twenty-three, an administrative assistant at a firm in downtown Valencia. She lived two doorways below mine, in one of those old buildings in Ruzafa with hydraulic tile floors and neighbors who hear everything. A proper husband from Sagunto, a football fan and a man of routines, a car that was always clean and vacations always at the same beach apartment. Classic middle class all the way: mortgage almost paid off, dinner at nine, the evening news, and bed.

But beneath that façade of a proper lady was a dead fire even she didn’t know how to name, waiting for someone to strike the match.

I really got to know her one Thursday afternoon on the terrace of the corner bar, when it starts getting dark early and people fill the tables with beers and conversations that drag on. I was writing on my laptop, pretending to work and distracting myself by watching the neighborhood go by. She was waiting for a coffee that was taking forever, wearing a brown knit dress that hugged her waist and flat sandals, her chestnut hair pulled back with a clip and two loose strands falling over her neck.

She wasn’t a magazine beauty. She was something better: a grown woman, with wide hips, generous breasts, and a way of crossing her legs that begged to be looked at. In her brown eyes there was a sweet exhaustion, the look of someone who has spent years doing what’s expected and nobody ever asks what she wants.

I stood up with that shameless smile that sometimes works like bait and laid it on the table without beating around the bush.

—Sorry to interrupt your coffee, but if you keep sitting there in that dress, I’m going to have to ask for the check and find an excuse to talk to you. Better I save you the trouble: my name’s Darío, I live in twenty-two, fourth floor.

She turned, startled, and blushed all the way to her ears, a flush rising up her neck. She let out a nervous laugh, the kind that tries to hide the fact that you’ve just landed on her radar.

—Are you always this direct, or only when you’ve got nothing better to do? —she said, toying with the clip in her hair—. It’s been a long time since anyone said anything like that to me.

—Then somebody should tell you that every day —I said—. And I don’t buy it, look at you.

She looked down at her coffee, smiling to herself. We talked for twenty minutes about nonsense: the neighborhood, the neighbors, the writer on the fourth floor who never finished anything. When she left, she walked a little slower than necessary, knowing I was watching, swaying her hips with a rhythm that was not entirely innocent. I was left with cold coffee, thinking about how a woman like that, married and resigned, had just lit a fuse that wasn’t going to go out easily.

***

Three days later, almost at midnight, I got the message I hadn’t expected so soon but had been craving like a kid.

—Hi. It’s Marisa, from the bar. My husband is in Sagunto with his mother until tomorrow. I’m alone at home for the first time in months. Feel like coming up for a while? But let me know if I’m too… plain. I’ve only ever been with him, and it’s always the same, fast and in the dark. I want to know what it’s really like. No pressure, okay.

I replied at once. I’ll be down in five minutes. And don’t worry, tonight the “in the dark” part ends.

She opened the door wearing a thin robe over a nightgown, her hair loose for the first time, younger somehow like that, barefoot on the tiled floor. She smelled of almond cream and nerves.

—Come in quickly, please —she whispered, blushing again—. The neighbors hear even when I breathe.

She closed the door softly with a click and stood there in the narrow hallway, not knowing what to do with her hands, looking at the floor, the ceiling, anywhere but at me. I moved closer slowly, without crowding her completely.

—Are you sure about this? If you want me to go, I’ll leave right now, no problem —I gave her the out, because the last thing I wanted was to scare her.

She shook her head and finally looked up, her eyes shining with fear and desire.

—No. I want to stay. It’s just… —she swallowed—. Fifteen years married and I’ve never come with him. He’s a good person, really, but he’s done in two minutes, turns off the light, and falls asleep. I stay awake with this strange emptiness, wondering if maybe I’m the problem. Tonight I don’t want to wonder anymore.

Those words were gasoline. I kissed her slowly, testing her. At first she kept her lips closed, shy like a beginner; then she opened her mouth and her tongue, unsure, came out to find mine with soft touches. Her hands rose to my chest trembling, clutching my shirt like a lifeline. I wrapped my arms around her waist, felt that firm curve under the robe, and with my other hand stroked her back through the fabric.

I led her to the living room sofa, one of those old sagging ones with a faded floral cover. I opened her robe slowly, like someone unwrapping something that had been put away for years. Her nightgown slipped off one shoulder. She had heavy, warm breasts, pale skin with a few freckles, and nipples that hardened as soon as the air touched them. I took them in both hands, weighed them, stroked them, feeling how they shaped themselves to my palms.

—You smell so good —I murmured against her neck—. And what a waste that nobody ever takes the time.

She instinctively covered herself with an arm, but I gently moved it away.

—I’m not a kid anymore —she said, almost apologizing—. I thought these things just fade with age.

—They don’t fade for anyone —I answered, and lowered my mouth to one of her nipples. I licked it in circles, then sucked it slowly. She let out a low moan, the first of the night, and arched her back.

I hiked her nightgown up to her waist. Underneath, she wore simple cotton panties, which I pulled off while she lifted her hips to help me, already surrendered. I knelt between her trembling legs, and the sofa creaked under her weight.

—I’m going to take my time —I told her, looking up at her from below—. And don’t be quiet. I want to hear you.

I started slow, running my flat tongue over her whole sex, from bottom to top, tasting her wetness. Then I focused on the exact spot, slow circles, gentle pressure that made her gasp. She clutched the back of the sofa, nails digging into the cover, head thrown back.

—Jesus… nobody had ever… —her voice broke—. He says that’s weird.

I slid in one finger, slowly, feeling the warm, tight inside of her; then two, curling them upward to brush that spot that made her moan harder. I stroked her from within while keeping up with my mouth, alternating quick licks with slow pressure. Within a few minutes she started shaking, hips lifting on their own, thighs closing around my face.

—Wait… wait, I feel something weird… don’t stop, please!

She came with a muffled cry against the back of her own hand, her whole body shuddering in waves, eyes wet with sheer intensity. Not a fake orgasm to please anyone: the first real one, at thirty-eight. She stared at me, dazed, her chest rising and falling.

—Never… never had anything like that, not even close —she said, laughing and crying at the same time—. Is that what I’ve been missing my whole life?

I kissed her so she could taste herself, and she laughed against my mouth, astonished by herself.

—Now learn to ask for what you want —I told her—. Without shame.

She slid off the sofa and knelt, curious, looking at me as if rediscovering something. She pulled my pants down with clumsy hands and took her time, unsure at first, growing more confident with each movement, glancing sideways to check she was doing it right. I stopped her before she could finish, gently catching her hair.

—Not like that. I want to finish with you, not separately.

I laid her back on the sofa, spread her legs, and entered her slowly, letting her get used to me. She moaned, arching her back, her nails digging into my shoulders.

—Don’t stop —she whispered—. For once, I don’t want it to end right away.

It didn’t end. I drove into her slowly at first, then deeper, watching how her body gradually let go, how she lost her shame and started moving against me, seeking me out. Her breasts rocked with every thrust and she dug her heels into my back, setting the rhythm, fucking me back as if she were reclaiming fifteen years all at once.

—Again… —she panted, unbelieving—. How is it possible, again…

She came clenching around me, tightening in waves, biting her lip so she wouldn’t wake half the building. I held on a little longer, rolled her onto her side, one leg over my shoulder, and stroked her with my fingers while I fucked her slowly, prolonging it until she begged.

***

Hours later, exhausted but still awake, she dared to talk about something that had been circling her mind all night.

—There’s one thing I’ve never tried —she said very quietly, playing with the hair on my chest—. He never even mentions it. But with you… I don’t know, with you I’d dare.

I put her face down, with a pillow under her hips, and took all the time in the world: first my hands, then my tongue, opening her patiently, with no rush at all, until she stopped tensing and started pushing back, looking for me.

—Slowly —I whispered—. You set the pace. If it hurts, we stop.

I entered her little by little, millimeter by millimeter, reading every breath she took. She was touching herself meanwhile, and when she finally let go completely, pleasure and bewilderment mixed in one long moan against the pillow. She came like that, shaking all over, whispering a string of words she hadn’t known she had inside her.

I finished shortly after, wrapped around her sweaty back, both of us breathing like we’d run a marathon.

We stayed tangled in her narrow bed, the ceiling fan turning slowly above us. She traced circles on my chest, still flushed, her tousled hair stuck to her forehead.

—My husband gets back tomorrow afternoon —she said, without looking at me—. And I don’t want this to end. I’ve never felt like this. Like it was… mine. For the first time.

I gave her a long, slow kiss.

—It doesn’t have to end —I said—. You know where I live. And he works late on Thursdays, doesn’t he?

She smiled in the dim light, and it wasn’t the tired smile from the market queue.

I left her house when it was starting to dawn. Ruzafa was waking up: metal shutters going up, the smell of bread from the bakery on the corner, someone watering the potted plants on a balcony. Marisa, thirty-eight years old, married, administrative assistant, resigned to not feeling anything… until that night.

And I, the neighbor on the fourth floor, had just discovered that the women nobody looks at are exactly the ones who burn the brightest when someone finally bothers to light them. Thursday came. And with it, another long night, and the certainty that in this city, as in everything, once something begins like this there’s no going back.