What My Mature Neighbor Awakened on a Rainy Afternoon

We moved to that neighborhood looking for the usual: peace, routine, a tidy life we could build together. Tree-lined streets, dogs barking in the middle of the afternoon, that smell of freshly cut grass that seemed to hang in the air even during the week. It was exactly what Tomás and I needed after we got married. Or so I thought.

I was twenty-six and had only been married a few months. I still felt like I was wearing a suit a size too big for me, one I couldn’t quite get used to.

The neighbor across the street was named Ricardo. He was around fifty-two, although he moved with a looseness many thirty-year-old men would envy. He had that straight-backed posture of someone who had spent years giving orders, but also a warm, measured manner. His wife, Beatriz, was his age and was almost never seen around the block. If anyone had asked me what I thought of him, I would have answered without hesitation: the neighbor across the street. Proper, polite, always greeting Tomás on the sidewalk. Nothing more.

Until that night.

***

Ricardo hosted a barbecue in his backyard, a simple get-together with a couple of neighbors and some of his acquaintances. Tomás accepted happily, and I went along without giving it much importance.

I put on a cream-colored linen dress, fitted at the waist, with a square neckline and fabric light enough to let the breeze play with me. I tied my hair up in a loose bun and let a couple of strands fall along my neck. I wasn’t trying to impress anyone. I just wanted to feel comfortable. Though deep down, I knew I looked good.

Ricardo’s house looked different that night. The lights hung between the trees like motionless fireflies and the low music filled the gaps between conversations. I greeted him as soon as we arrived, with a cordial smile and nothing more. He was wearing a gray T-shirt that showed off his shoulders and plain jeans.

In the middle of the gathering, the men got caught up in their own topics and I ended up looking for the bathroom more out of boredom than necessity. When I came out, I ran into him in the hallway.

—Enjoying the party? —he asked in that deep voice of his, stepping aside to let me pass. I didn’t even get to answer.

—That dress should come with a warning —he added, almost under his breath, without looking me straight in the eye. And he kept going, leaving behind the scent of wood and something clean and masculine.

I froze in place. I turned to look for him, but he was already chatting with another group, as if he hadn’t said anything out of line.

What nerve, I thought. And yet I couldn’t feel the rejection I should have felt.

I started noticing him. The confidence with which he moved, as if everything around him answered to him. His firm arms every time he lifted something from the table. His laugh, deeper than I remembered. At one point our eyes met from afar and he held mine a second longer than necessary. He didn’t look away. He didn’t smile. He just looked at me, directly, as if he knew something I was only beginning to sense.

I had always been attracted to older men: that mix of confidence, calm, of knowing exactly what they want. But this was absurd. Just one comment and he had already stirred something inside me.

When we said goodbye, Ricardo shook Tomás’s hand with a firm pat on the shoulder and then turned to me. There was no brushing against me, no double-meaning. He only held my gaze as he said:

—Thank you for coming, Mariana.

He said it in such a measured, so deep a voice that my own name sounded different, as if I had never heard it spoken by a man before.

***

The following days were normal on the surface. Morning coffee, Tomás’s shower, my flight attendant shifts, the occasional outing. Nothing had changed, except that now, every time I walked through the living room, my eyes drifted toward the window facing the street.

Ricardo’s house seemed more present than before. Sometimes I saw him heading out early to jog with his dog. Other times I found him standing in the yard, coffee cup in hand, looking toward the street. Toward my window. I couldn’t always be sure. Sometimes I thought his gaze was fixed on mine; other times I was the one who kept staring too long, trying to guess whether it was intention or coincidence.

One afternoon I found him in front of his house, alone, watering the garden. I was on my way out to take some recycling bags.

—Mariana.

Just that. My name. That tone again.

—Ricardo —I replied, trying to sound natural, though I felt my cheeks heat up for no reason.

There was no one else there. No cars, no neighbors. Just him and me, separated by the sidewalk and a patch of freshly watered grass.

—You looked very good in that dress the other day —he said, without lowering his gaze. He didn’t smile, didn’t sound teasing. He said it like someone stating a fact.

—Thanks —I murmured. It was the only thing I could manage. His gaze was so clear it disarmed me. He wasn’t the kind of man who played with hints. He said what he saw, and that unsettled me more than any clumsy compliment.

—Well… I’d better go before I get scolded for tending someone else’s garden —I joked, trying to break the tension.

He did smile then, just barely, but his eyes stayed fixed on mine.

—Tomás wouldn’t let you go even if you behaved badly —he said then, and for the first time he looked down to turn off the tap.

I didn’t know whether he meant it for me, for himself, or if it had simply slipped out. But I heard it so clearly I couldn’t answer. I turned slowly and crossed the street back home, feeling his gaze on my back until I closed the door.

Nothing happened. And yet, something inside me had shifted.

***

From that point on I stopped pretending. I dressed better to go to the corner store. I touched up my makeup thinking he might be outside. I opened the living room curtain more often than ever. And when he looked at me from across the street, I held his gaze. I no longer pretended to be surprised, no longer lowered my eyes. I started seeing him for what he was: a mature man who made me wet just by appearing in my fantasies.

One afternoon I got home from work before Tomás. The washer was humming in the kitchen, the sun drifting in warm through the window. I bent down to pick up the clothes from the hamper when I heard a soft knock at the door.

I opened it.

Ricardo. Tight black T-shirt, a towel around his neck, his skin still glistening with effort. He looked like he had just come from training. His chest rose and fell slowly.

—Sorry to bother you —he said—. Would you have any ice? I ran out and my shoulder’s been bothering me.

He spoke calmly, but I was short of breath. Because of that hardened, taut body standing in my doorway. Because of the clean smell of his sweat. Because of the way his voice hit my chest without warning.

—Of course, wait a second —I said, turning to go inside. I felt his eyes moving over my wrinkled flight attendant uniform, the heels I had barely managed to take off.

I came back with a bag of ice. When I handed it to him, our fingers barely brushed. One second. A jolt.

—Thanks, neighbor —he said, and stayed there a moment longer than necessary. His eyes dropped over me. Not crudely, but attentively, as if seeing me for the first time.

And for the first time, I didn’t hide either. I didn’t move. I just looked back at him.

—Are you okay? —he asked.

—Yes. Just surprised.

He smiled, as if he understood more than I was saying, and headed back to his house unhurriedly. I closed the door with trembling hands.

***

Days later the rain came. It wasn’t heavy, but it was constant, as if the sky were taking its time. I had just gotten out of the shower when I heard urgent barking. I wrapped myself in a towel and ran to the window: my dog, Coco, had gotten out and was barking like crazy in front of Ricardo’s garden, defying a German shepherd that looked at him with contempt from behind the gate.

I hurriedly put on sweatpants and a blouse over my still-damp skin, opened the door to run out, and slammed into a silhouette at the entrance. Ricardo, carrying Coco like a child, both of them soaked.

—He got all the way to my door and wouldn’t stop —he said, smiling, his voice muffled by the rain—. I figured it was better to bring him before he started a war.

He was wearing a white T-shirt clinging to his chest, made sheer by the water. I could see the drops running down his temples, his neck, his defined arms, in slow motion that dried my mouth out.

—Sorry —I said, nervously laughing—. I don’t know how he got loose.

—Don’t worry. It’s not the first time a dog’s gotten me into trouble.

We looked at each other for a few seconds. The sound of rain filled the silences. He was a step away from me, breathing harder than normal, and I with wet hair and clothes stuck to my body.

—Do you want a towel? —I offered, turning halfway around.

—Even better, yes. I’m soaked.

He came in. I closed the door.

I came back from the bathroom with a large towel and handed it to him. He took it without taking his eyes off me. His fingers brushed mine and made me inhale deeper than I wanted to.

—Thanks —he said, but he didn’t dry himself. He looked me up and down, without shamelessness, with attention. And I could no longer keep pretending I hadn’t noticed all of that before. That body. That slow way of speaking. That invisible tension every time we were near each other and nothing happened.

—Do you want to dry off in the bathroom? —I asked. I didn’t recognize my own voice.

He shook his head. He left the towel on the table and took a step. Then another. I didn’t back away.

When he was in front of me, his hand brushed my cheek, just barely. It wasn’t rough. It was a test. And I didn’t pull away.

—You know I shouldn’t be here —he murmured, hoarse.

—Me neither —I whispered.

No other permission was needed.

***

He kissed me hard, as if he had been holding back for weeks. My back hit the wall. His warm, wet body pressed against mine and I felt the hard bulge straining against me. His hands took my waist and hips. He pulled my wet blouse up without stopping, until he took it off completely; I raised my arms to help him. His lips trailed down my neck while, without realizing it, my hand was already at the back of his neck, pressing him against me.

His mouth moved from my neck to my collarbone and, when I guided his head lower, he understood the message. He devoted himself to my breasts with calm, alternating tongue and the pressure of his large hands. He sat me on the edge of the sink, my legs wrapping around him, and I noticed his cock fighting to get free of his clothes. I undid his pants, pulled down the zipper and, with one sharp tug, let everything fall to the floor. I took him in my hand and felt his hot, firm pulse between my fingers.

He lifted me down in one movement and turned me to face the mirror. My pants fell, and with them my underwear, while from behind he held my breasts. He wasted no time on detours. He brought his sex to my pussy and I leaned forward to make the way easier for him. He began to rub against me slowly, parting me with each pass, and a shiver ran down my spine. My legs were trembling. And suddenly I felt him opening me to let him in; the moan that escaped me confirmed everything for him.

He filled me in one go. He started with firm thrusts, without pause, each one marked by the sound of my body crashing against his. I moaned like I hadn’t moaned in a long time, like I hadn’t done it with anyone in a long time.

—Since I saw you I wanted to have you like this —he told me between gasps, though I barely paid attention.

He slowed down and, without leaving me, ran two fingers over my sex and then took them farther back. I knew immediately what he had in mind. Anal sex wasn’t new to me; it wasn’t my favorite, but that afternoon I was willing to do anything with him. He pulled his cock out, wet the area well, and I tried to relax and help him.

He pressed the tip against me. I held onto the sink, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath. He began to push, gentle but steady. A faint burn came with it. I felt him give way millimeter by millimeter; every time the pain grew, he stopped for a couple of seconds, and I thanked him in silence before he pressed again.

—The worst is over now, Mari —he murmured when he finally slid all the way in. He stayed still for a moment, letting me adjust, his hand resting on my back.

Then he started moving. He came almost all the way out and went back in at the same speed, stealing a moan from me with each thrust. Each thrust came harder than the last, and the rhythm told me the end of that sweet torment was near.

He buried his fingers in my hair, closed his fist, and yanked my head back. It hurt, but it was a pain I didn’t mind enduring.

—Open your eyes —he ordered—. Look at yourself.

The image in the steamed-up mirror was unforgettable. My flushed face, my wet hair falling across my face, my eyes half-closed with each stroke. And him behind me, his toned body, his arms holding me up, the veins in his neck marked at the exact instant a hoarse growl escaped him and I felt his heat spilling inside me. I would have liked to keep that scene in something more than memory.

***

The next morning the sky was still gray. The street was wet, the tree leaves dripping with unbearable calm. I put on the coffee maker as I did every day. I poured Tomás’s cup exactly as always, two spoonfuls of sugar, no stirring, just the way he likes it.

—Did you sleep well? —he asked from the table, not looking up from his phone.

—Yes —I answered, without thinking. As if it were true.