The echo of the elevator

The echo of the elevator

Madrid took a long time to get dark that night in June. The streets kept emitting the heat of the asphalt and the windows were shining as if they wanted to keep people out of the house. In the lobby of the hotel Ronda, Clara left the key on the marble and looked around the clock hanging over the reception. It was three and twenty-two. The receptionist offered him a tired smile and returned to her computer without asking anything else.

He went up in the elevator alone. The cabin smelled of hot wood and lemon from the last maintenance. As he watched the numbers turn on one by one, he thought of the way he had brought her here: a convention of urbanism, three endless presentations and the certainty that the next day he should take an early train. None of that mattered now. He wanted a shower, light clothes and sleep with the window open.

When he reached the twelveth floor, the door opened and a stream of air from the corridor grazed his legs. He advanced through the carpet by turning off his heels. His room was at the end, next to the emergency window. He put the card in and pushed the door, but the mechanism did not click. He took two steps back and tried again. The red light blinked twice. He sighed, leaned his forehead against the wood and closed his eyes for an instant.

"Excuse me," said a voice behind her. "I think it's my room."

Clara turned. The man who spoke to her was wearing her shirt unbuttoned and holding a plastic bag with a bottle and two plastic glasses. She would be just over forty. Dark hair fell on her forehead and the smell of wet city wrapped her.

"I must have got the wrong floor," she answered, raising the card to show him the printed number.

He looked at the plastic, then the digit engraved at the door. He smiled with a tiredness that did not seem faked.

"Twenty-eight. Mine is twelve thirty. The elevator has left me two floors above and I have walked down. I apologize.

Clara studied the expression of the stranger. “There was no insistence, just a kind of relief for having found someone who also seemed lost. She pulled the card aside and pointed to the door next door.

• Then we're neighbors.

"One night's neighbors," he answered, offering his hand. "Mark."

• Clara.

They shook their hands. His skin was warm, as if he had climbed the stairs too fast. Neither of them released it immediately. It was Clara who removed her fingers first, surprised by the heartbeat she felt in the yolk.

Marcos pointed to the bag he was carrying.

—Vodka and ice. If you don’t care about plastic, we can toast to plant errors.

She hesitated half a second. “She looked at his own door, then his. There was no one in the hallway. Only the distant buzz of a fridge and the damped echo of a television.

"A drink," he accepted, "but in my room. Mine has the fridge that works.

They crossed the threshold and the automatic light went on. The stay was identical to all those of the hotel: wide bed, table with a low lamp, window that reflected the city as a negative photograph. Clara dropped the bag on the chair and lit only the light of the bedside table. The dimness softened the corners.

Marcos served two vodka fingers in each glass and added ice. They toasted without looking into his eyes. The liquor dropped cold down Clara’s throat and gave him a chill that ran through his neck.

"Urbanism?" he asked, pointing to the credential that was still hanging from his neck.

"Architecture, actually. You seem...

"Sports journalist. I came to cover the finals of the Champions League, but the flight was delayed and here I am, celebrating a victory that does not belong to me.

They talked about stadiums and plans, how the city changes every ten years and how the noise of cranes has become the soundtrack of Madrid. The voices got lower, as if vodka asked for confidences. At some point, Clara took off her shoes and leaned barefoot on the carpet. Marcos knelt down to leave the glasses empty on the mat and, when he got up, his fingers brushed her knee. No one turned away.

The silence that followed was not uncomfortable. It was a pause full of possibilities. Clara felt that the skin of her legs stood up, not because of the air conditioning, but because of the proximity of the body of others. She reached out and touched Marcos’ wrist, measuring the pulse. He responded by leaning forward until his foreheads were brushed.

"Do you want me to go?" he asked in a whisper.

"No," she answered, and the word sounded clear in the room.

They kissed on their feet next to the window. The first touch of lips was slow, exploratory. Then the kiss deepened and Clara felt how his tongue found his own with a certainty that took his breath away. Marcos’ hands climbed up his sides, opening the American one she still wore. The garment fell to the ground with a soft sound. Below, Clara wore a strap shirt. Marcos slipped his fingers under the cloth and stroked the warm skin of the belly. She arched her back, inviting contact.

Clara unbuttoned the remaining buttons on Mark’s shirt and pulled the garment aside. The torso that appeared was wide, with a slight sun mark on the neckline. She passed her nails through the skin, leaving a trail that caused Mark to hold his breath. He removed his t-shirt from one movement and looked at his breasts covered by a black lace bra. She kissed him through the fabric, gently biting the nipple that immediately hardened.

Clara lay down on the quilt and Marcos stood between her legs. She lowered her skirt deliberately slowly, letting the tissue rub the skin. She remained in her underwear. He kissed the inside of her thighs, going up to the edge of the lace. Clara opened her legs a little bit more, allowing Mark’s mouth to approach the center of desire. He pulled the cloth away with his teeth and licked it with his flat tongue, savoring the moisture that had already accumulated. Clara groaned, a low sound that resonated in the room. His fingers tangled in his hair, guiding him, asking for more.

Mark put on the right time to take off his pants and the boxer. His limb, hard and heavy, was released. Clara surrounded him with her hand, measuring the length and width. He closed his eyes and let her caress him, going up and down with just pressure. When he could no longer, Mark opened the drawer of the table and drew a condom. He put it on with trembling fingers while Clara took off her bra and panties.

She placed herself on her back on the bed, her knees bent down. Marcos placed himself between her thighs and rubbed the tip of her sex against the wet entrance. Clara raised her hips, inviting him. He pushed slowly, inch by inch, to fill it completely. Both of them breathed in unison. Marcos began to move with a controlled rhythm, coming out almost completely to re-enter. Clara clinched his nails in his back, marking his skin. The sound of their bodies joining filled the room: the wet shock, the short breaths, the slight creaking of the bed.

They changed their position. Clara mounted herself on top, leaning her hands on Mark’s chest. She rode slowly at first, then accelerated. He held her hips, guiding the movement, and carried a hand to her clitoris, rubbing her thumb in circles. Clara threw her head back and her hair brushed her shoulder blades. The pleasure grew in waves until orgasm shook her, contracting the inner walls around Mark’s limb. He waited for her to come down from the crest and then knocked her down again, penetrating her deeper into it. When she reached the limit, she grunted Clara’s name against her neck and spilled into the condom, trembling.

They became entangled, sweaty, as the air conditioning cooled the skin. Marcos kissed Clara’s temple and pulled a lock out of her forehead. She smiled, satisfied, and traced his clavicle line with her finger.

"This is not in the hotel brochure," he muttered.

"No," said Mark. "But the elevator has its surprises.

Half an hour later, Clara opened the window. Night air came in, filled with the smell of orange blossoms and distant traffic. Marcos dressed slowly, leaving his shirt outside. Before leaving, he stopped at the threshold.

"Tomorrow I have a flight at eleven," he said.

"I took the AVE at nine," she replied.

They looked at each other, aware that they would probably never see each other again. Still, goodbye didn’t go to waste. I knew a page written in fresh ink that, one day, could be reread.

When the door closed, Clara stood in front of the bathroom mirror. She had the mark of Mark’s teeth on her shoulder and her body was still vibrating. She showered with warm water, put on her clean T-shirt and got into bed. Before turning off the light, she looked at the condom wrapped in paper that she had left on the table. She smiled. She turned off the lamp and fell asleep listening, on the other side of the wall, to the cushioned echo of another elevator that went up and down, leading someone else to a meeting that she still did not know.