The glass lamp of Calle Mayor
Elena closed the workshop door with the same key she always kept in the pocket of her grey linen jacket. The plaque on Calle Mayor, covered with rust in the letters, shone under the light of the lantern that lit itself. She climbed the second stretch of ladder without turning on the switch; she knew each step per touch. On the landing, the crimson wool carpet cushioned the steps to the dark door that marked the boundary between the visible world and the place she and Andrew only shared.
When the key was turned around, the smell of old wood and the lavenders that dried in the window filled the room. He lit the glass lamp, the one that hung from the ceiling like a contained constellation. The glass, carved with geometric patterns, projected luminous figures on the walls covered with satin shelves and cedar drawers. In the center of the room, a low couch covered by a blanket of grey silk awaited.
Andres was already there. He was wearing loose linen black pants and his torso naked, but Elena noticed the glow of the inner fabric that was sticking out of his waist: a dark grey silk boxer that she herself had made for him. He said nothing. He just bowed his head in a slight greeting and waited by the window, the profile trimmed against the blue that darkened the city.
Elena hung her jacket and barefooted herself on the carpet. The cold wood floor brushed her plants. She approached him without haste and let her fingers scour the boxer’s seam over the black linen. The silk conveyed heat, but the pressure was deliberate and light, a reminder rather than a caress.
"Good night," she whispered.
'Good evening, Elena,' replied he, the low voice, the tone of the one who delivers the next step.
She took a night blue silk scarf and held it between them. It was almost translucent. She placed it over Andrew’s eyes carefully, nesting it on the back of his neck. The handkerchief did not prevent the air from passing, but it did give off the slight movement of her eyelids when she grazed her temple with her lips.
'Remember the word,' he said.
"Lampara," answered Andrew without hesitation.
Elena smiled even if he could not see it. The ritual had already been repeated so many nights that the word acted like a soft key. She accepted that the handkerchief should remain in place and took a step back.
He opened the first drawer of the dresser. Inside he rested the black lace gloves without fingers. He put them slowly, stretching each finger. The lace creaked just against his short nails. With them, he returned to Andrew and touched his chest. The mesh of the fabric dragged on the skin, so thin that it looked like second skin. He breathed deeper, but he did not move. Elena let her fingers follow the sternum line to the navel, stopping just above the boxer’s belt. There, the glove stopped a second longer, just enough for Andrew to feel the pause and anticipate the next move.
She retired again. In the second drawer she found the two-fingered black velvet ribbon. She went back and passed it under Andrew’s waist, rubbing her hip when she adjusted the bow. She did not press. The tape was simply there, a reminder that it could be thrown out or untied, but that for now it only existed as a promise. Andres swallowed saliva, the barely audible sound.
Elena walked to the other end of the room and undressed without haste. She was left with the ivory satin camisole that reached her half thigh and the soft hazelnut silk stockings. Between stockings and camisole, the black lace league held each half. She slipped her fingers through the right league, adjusting it, knowing that the sound of the metal buckle would reach Andrew through space. Then she approached again.
With the velvet ribbon still loose, Elena passed her hand through Andrew’s back. Lace gloves transmitted the warmth of his skin. He stood upright, arms to his sides. She toured the spine to the coxis, tracing small circles with the bud of the forefinger. Lace barely scratched, enough for Andrew to tighten his shoulders.
'Can I sit you down?' asked Elena, the quiet voice, making it clear that he could respond freely.
"Yes," answered Andrew.
She led him to the couch. Before he sat down, she removed the silk blanket and replaced it with a heavier grey cashmere blanket. Andrew settled in the center. Elena knelt down in front of him, at a distance that allowed the rubbing if she stretched out her hand, but now only allowed visual contact that he could not have. She lifted her foot and slipped her linen pants until it was on the ground. The dark grey silk boxer was visible. Elena passed her fingers over the edge of the cloth, without putting them inside, just marking the limit.
From a nearby drawer he drew a brush of soft bristles of goat’s hair. He began to pass the brush through the inside of Andrew’s thighs. The bristles, barely firmer than the air, brushed the skin with such mild pressure that it forced to concentrate to know if they were really there. Andrew bowed his head back, the night blue silk scarf moving slightly with his breath. Elena raised the brush to the junction of the leg and hip, drawing parallel lines. Every time the brush came near the velvet ribbon, she lifted it up just with her fingers, making it vibrate against the skin.
'How are you feeling?' he asked, stopping the brush.
"Here," answered Andrew. "The word came out loaded, as if I had measured it before I let it go."
Elena left the brush aside. With the lace gloves she touched him again, this time the inner part of the knee. He slowly climbed up to the edge of the boxer. There, he inserted only the index finger below the fabric, rubbing the skin without reaching any more. Andrew released air slowly. Elena withdrew her finger and repeated the gesture on the other thigh. Every time she pulled her hand away, she left the empty space that Andrew knew she could occupy again at any time.
He stood up and went to the window. He leaned his forehead in the glass, feeling the cold against the hot skin of his face. Behind her, Andrew sat, breathing with that accompanying rhythm that indicated that he was waiting, not only still. Elena closed her eyes and counted mentally up to fifteen. He wanted the silence to be long enough for Andrew to notice every second without contact. When he opened his eyes, the Main Street looked empty under the light of the lanterns.
He returned to the couch. He knelt again in front of Andrew, but now closer. He took his hand and guided her to his own knee. He did not allow him to go up any further. Andres could feel the lace league and the silk in the middle, but not the way he was taking up. He held his hand there, with his palm open, while she was using the brush again, this time on his forearms. The bristles were going down from his shoulder to his wrist, a way back and forth three times. Every time the brush rubbed the velvet ribbon around his waist, Andrés tightened his fingers against Elena’s knee.
She left the brush. She took the tape around Andrew’s waist and gently pulled it down, without untying it, only creating tension. The cloth stuck to the body. Then she released the pressure and let the tape return to its place. She repeated the gesture three times, each with a different rhythm: once fast, another slow, the third almost imperceptible. Andres breathed with his mouth open.
Elena joined. She asked Andrew to lie sideways on the couch. He obeyed. She stood behind, so that her chest remained against his back. The ivory satin camisole rubbed Andrew’s skin. Through thin silk, he could feel the heat of Elena’s body, but the camisole acted as a light barrier that prevented direct skin contact. Elena passed an arm over Andrew’s waist and placed her hand on her chest. With the lace glove, she drew slow circles around the left nipple, without touching the center, just the perimeter. The lace scraped just the skin. Andrew arched his back back back, looking for more pressure, but Elena kept the exact distance.
'Do you want me to stop?' she asked in a whisper beside her ear.
"No," answered Andrew, the voice snoring but clear.
Elena smiled at her neck. She pulled her hand back and lowered it to the edge of the boxer. She inserted her fingers under the elastic waist, but only until the first knuckle. There she waited. Andrew could feel her fingers, motionless, just inside the garment. The lace of the glove rubbed the sensitive skin just under the navel. Elena mentally counted up to ten before pulling her hand away completely. Andrew released a sound between complaint and sighing.
He got up from the couch and went to the corner closet. He opened the door and chose a long lavender silk nightgown with wide sleeves. He put it over the nightgown. The new fabric, heavier, fell into soft folds to the ankles. He returned to the couch and sat on the edge, inviting Andrew to join. He sat in front of her, the nightly blue silk handkerchief still in his eyes.
Elena took Andrew’s hands and placed them on her own thighs, above the lavender nightgown. He could feel the weight of the silk, but not the skin. She allowed him to raise his hands to the hips, where the elastic of the league created a small relief under the cloth. Andrew drew that relief with his thumbs, slow, as memorizing the shape. Elena allowed him to reach the lower part of the ribs, but not higher. Then he gently removed his hands.
He got up and went to the dresser again. This time he pulled out a wide-winged, silver-grey feather. He returned and began to pass the pen through Andrew’s neck, going down the sternum to the navel. The pen barely weighed, but left a trail of sensitivity that caused the skin to contract in small waves. Andrew bowed his head to one side, exposing more neck. Elena took the opportunity to pass the pen behind the ear, then through the jawline. Each move was deliberate, letting Andrew know exactly where the next touch was before he arrived.
She left the pen on the couch and took the velvet ribbon around Andrew’s waist. This time she slowly untied it, letting the ends fall on her thighs. The velvet brushed her skin when she fell. Elena picked up the tape and passed it through the inner face of Andrew’s thighs, knees to English, without touching the area covered by the boxer. Each pass left a slight heat due to the soft friction of the fabric.
Andrew stretched out a hand and placed it on Elena’s knee, above the lavender nightgown. She allowed the hand to remain there. Andrew raised his hand to the thigh, stopping when he found the league under the cloth. Elena let her fingers draw the contour of the league, feeling the pressure of the elastic against the skin. Then, with a gentle movement, he pulled his hand away and took it back to his own knee.
He stood up and walked around the couch. Andres turned his head following the sound of his steps. Elena stopped in front of him and grabbed his chin with two laced fingers. He raised his face. Although Andrew could not see, the posture of his body indicated complete attention. Elena bowed and rubbed her lips against his, barely a touch, without pressure, only the rubbing of hot skin. Andres bowed his head forward, looking for more, but Elena turned away.
'Open your mouth,' she said.
Andres obeyed. Elena blew soft air against his lips, enough for him to feel the breath but not the contact. Then he withdrew again and waited. Andres remained with his mouth open, breathing slowly, waiting for the next step that did not arrive. Elena counted up to twenty in silence before coming back.
This time he passed the laced fingers through Andrew’s lips, from one end to the other, without entering. The lace mesh brushed the sensitive skin. Andrew closed his lips around her fingers, a petitioning gesture rather than a demand. Elena allowed him to keep his fingers there for a moment, then removed them and replaced them with the edge of the velvet ribbon. Andrés rubbed the ribbon with his lips, recognizing the texture that was familiar to him.
Elena sat down again in front of him. She took one of Andrew’s hands and led her to her own chest, above the lavender nightgown. Andrew could feel the heat through the silk, but the cloth prevented him from perceiving the relief of his nipples. Elena allowed her hand to remain there while she took the brush of soft bristles and passed it through the inside of Andrew’s arms, from the wrist to the shoulder. Each passing of the brush coincided with a deeper breath of him.
When he finished with his arms, he left the brush. He took the velvet ribbon and tied it back around Andrew’s waist, but this time with a looser bow. Then he got up and went to the window. He opened the window and let the night air in. The breeze moved the white linen curtains. Elena remained there for a moment, feeling the contrast between the fresh air and the hot skin under the nightgown.
He went back to the couch. He knelt down in front of Andrew and asked him to lie down on his back. He obeyed. Elena strung around her legs, without touching her torso. From that position, he could see Andrew’s chest climb up and down with every breath. He took the bird’s feather and passed it through the inside of Andrew’s thighs, climbing up to the velvet ribbon. Every time the pen reached the ribbon, she lifted it with her fingers, making it brush his skin.
Andrew stretched out his hands and placed them on Elena’s knees. She allowed them to climb up her thighs, over the lavender nightgown, up to her hips. There, Andrew drew the contours of the leagues with his thumbs. Elena let her hands stay there while she continued with her pen, now on Andrew’s chest, surrounding her nipples without touching them directly.
"Are you still here?" asked Elena.
'Yes,' replied Andrew, the voice clear despite the agitated breath.
She left the pen. She took Andrew’s hands and carried them to her own face. Andrew could feel the softness of her cheeks, the warmth of her skin. Elena allowed her fingers to go down to her neck, where her pulse was visible. Then she took his hands off and rose from the couch.
He went up to the dresser and pulled out a bottle of almond oil. He returned and knelt down next to Andrew. He poured a small amount of oil into the palm of his hand and heated it by rubbing his hands. Then he put his hands in lace gloves through Andrew’s chest, distributing the oil in slow circles. The lace, now impregnated with oil, conveyed the texture of the fabric along with the warmth of the liquid. Andrés arched his back slightly, looking for more pressure. Elena kept contact just enough for him to notice the difference between the dry lace and the wet lace.
When she finished with her chest, she lowered her hands to the abdomen. There, the oil slipped more easily. Elena passed her fingers under the velvet ribbon, rubbing her skin with her lace soaked. Andrew breathed deep. Elena took her hands away and cleaned them with a linen cloth that she had prepared.
He got up and went to the window. He closed the window and returned to the couch. He sat next to Andrew and removed his night blue silk scarf. Andrew blinked, getting used to the soft light of the glass lamp. Elena looked into his eyes, waiting. Andrew smiled slightly, a gesture of recognition rather than satisfaction.
'How are you feeling?' she asked.
"Beware," answered Andrew, the word chosen with precision.
Elena nodded. She got up and went up to the closet. She took out a dark grey cashmere gown and put it over the lavender nightgown. Then she returned and helped Andrew get in. He sat on the edge of the couch. Elena offered her a glass of water that he accepted with his hands still a little shaky.
They sat down together on the couch, without talking for a while. Elena had a hand on Andrew’s knee, a constant but light contact. Andrew drank the water in slow sips, recovering the rhythm of his breathing. When he finished, he left the glass on the side table.
Elena got up and went to the dresser. She opened the first drawer and kept the lace gloves. She closed the drawer and went back to the couch. She sat in front of Andrew and took his hands. She held them between hers, feeling the residual heat of the previous contact.
'You want us to talk about something in particular?' she asked.
'I'd like to know how you felt,' said Andrew.
Elena thought for a moment before answering.
'I felt present at every moment. I noticed every breath of yours as if it were mine. I liked the way you waited without asking.
Andres nodded.
'I also noticed every pause of yours. It was as if time stretched between every touch.
They remained silent again. Elena passed her thumb through the back of Andrew’s hand, a gesture of comfort rather than excitement. Andres closed his eyes and let the feeling wrap him up.
After a while, Elena got up and went to the window. She opened the window again, but this time only a little, letting a soft breeze in. The fresh air contrasted with the heat that was still in the room. She went back to the couch and sat next to Andrés.
'Are you hungry?' she asked.
"A little," answered Andrew.
Elena got up and went to the small kitchen that communicated with the living room. She prepared two bowls of pumpkin soup that she had left ready in the morning. She took them to the couch and handed them over to Andrés. They ate quietly, sharing the same bowl of bread. The ritual of food after the game was as important as the game itself.
When they were finished, Elena picked up the bowls and took them back to the kitchen. She returned and sat next to Andrew. She took her hand and carried it to her own chest, above the cashmere gown. Andrew could feel her heartbeat, steady and calm.
"Thank you," said Andrew.
'Thanks to you,' replied Elena.
They got up from the couch. Elena went up to the closet and pulled out a soft wool blanket. She spread it over the couch and lay down together, she on her back and he on her side, hugging her from behind. The blanket covered them both. Elena felt the heat of Andrew’s body against her back, the weight of his arm on her waist. She closed her eyes and let the dream go wrapping her little by little.
Andrew stayed awake for a while, feeling Elena’s breathing rhythm against her chest. He thought of how she had controlled every moment without raising her voice, how power had been transmitted through pauses rather than words. He thought of the velvet ribbon that still surrounded his waist, now loose but present. He thought of the glass lamp hanging from the ceiling, projecting its luminous figures on the walls.
Before she fell asleep, Andrés kissed Elena’s neck, a soft kiss that asked for nothing, only thanked her. Elena murmured something unintelligible and settled better against him. Calle Mayor remained silent outside the window, the lanterns lit, the city asleep.
The glass lamp continued to shine, its light filtered through the carved crystals, creating patterns that moved slightly with the breeze that entered through the open window. In the room, two people slept together, the completed ritual, mutual care extending beyond the game, to the shared dream.
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