The sand and glass balcony
The last rays of the twilight dyed copper on the white facades of the urbanization and the sea was reflected in the windows as sheets of mercury. Amparo arrived at the attic at the fall of the afternoon, after leaving the car in the covered parking lot. The doorman issued a brief beep and the door opened with a silent click; at the reception, only the receptionist greeted her with an educated gesture before returning to her magazine.
The electronic key was a matte black card. When the band slipped through the lock, the living room lit up with the same orange light that entered through the window. Amparo dropped the suitcase, took off the canvas sandals and walked barefoot to the terrace. The balcony facing it was fifteen meters away. Two wicker armchairs, a low table and a glass stump separated both spaces, but not so much as to erase the details.
At that time, the other attic seemed empty. However, on the back of the navy blue armchair he rested a bone-colored linen shirt and glass glass. Amparo observed it a moment before entering and preparing his own ritual: he removed the cover from the deckchair and arranged a bottle of ice water and a book that he did not intend to read.
At dusk, the lights of the streetlights of the walk went on. Amparo opened the sliding door and the salt-laden wind lifted up the edge of the dress. He was wearing a very fine beige linen that hardly contrasted with the tanned skin. He leaned his forearms on the railing and looked towards the sea. Then, the sound of a key turning in the lock of the attic opposite her turned her head.
The man who appeared was wearing his shirt open. He was taller than her, dark-haired from the sun, and he walked with that slowness he reserved at the end of the day. He placed the cup on the table and, when he joined, looked up. His eyes crossed. There was no surprise in his eyes, just a mute question: am I still here? Amparo held his gaze two seconds longer than what the courtesy marked and, without breaking the contact, leaned his hip on the railing, letting the wind move the cloth of the dress.
The man smiled barely, unbuttoned the first button on his shirt and pulled a cigarette out of his pocket. He did not light it. He just left it between his lips and waited. Amparo understood that he did not smoke; that the gesture was a way to point out his presence and, at the same time, an invitation to decide.
He decided.
He returned to the interior, but left the sliding door open. In the bathroom, the light was warmer; a golden LED strip ran through the mirror. He untied the fabric belt, dropped the dress to the floor and remained naked in front of the mirror for a few moments. The nipple was hardened by the contrast between the air conditioning and the heat that was already going up his belly. He took the dress, put it back, this time with nothing under it, and went out to the balcony.
The man, on the other side, had sat down. The light in his living room lit up his torso and left his face in dim shadow. Amparo took the bottle of water, took a slow sip, and let a few drops slip through his chin and neck to get lost between his breasts. Then he passed his hand through his throat, picking up the moisture and taking it to the neck. The movement was not casual; he knew that he saw it. The man, on the other side, bowed his head as a sign of recognition and crossed one leg over the other.
So the first half hour passed: an exercise of presence. Each gesture of Amparo was answered with another of the man. She lifted the hem of the dress up to the thigh; he unbuttoned his shirt completely and took it off. She slipped her fingers through the inside of the knee; he leaned his open hand on the chest, as if measuring the heartbeat. There were no words. Only the occasional sound of a wave and the soft rumor of distant traffic.
When the sky became indigo and the stars began to shape, Amparo took the next step. He got up, entered the living room, turned off all the lights except for a lamp facing the window. Then he went back to the balcony and sat down in front of the other attic, with his legs slightly open. The dress, wide cut, let me see the inner thigh line almost to the hip. The man, on the other side, bowed forward, supporting his elbows on his knees. The gesture said: I am still here, tell me how far you want to go.
Amparo raised his left hand and, with two fingers, pointed to the balcony across the street. Then he touched his lower lip and nodded. The man understood. He got up slowly, disappeared for a moment inside his living room and reappeared with a chair that he placed right on the edge of the railing. He sat down again, unbuttoned his belt and lowered his pants zipper. The cloth opened wide enough to let the dark silhouette of sex be seen against the black underwear. He didn’t pull it out. He just waited.
Amparo’s pulse accelerated. The air seemed denser. He lifted his dress up to his waist, being completely exposed from the lower part of his belly to his knees. The man, on the other side, slipped his hand inside the black cloth and began to caress himself with slow, measured movements. I am listening to the rhythm with two fingers on his own clitoris. The contact was electric; a low groan escaped from his throat and the wind took him to the sea.
No one spoke. The breaths, on the other hand, were amplified in the space between the two balconies. I could see the humidity coming down the inside of his thighs. The man had pulled out the limb completely; the hand went up and down with a hypnotic cadence, the swollen head shining under the indirect light. Amparo opened up more, inserted two fingers into the vagina and pulled them out brilliantly, showing them to him before taking them to his mouth. The man squeezed his jaw; his hand accelerated one second and then returned to the previous, controlled rhythm.
The game continued like this, mutual and explicit. Amparo leaned on the deckchair, lifted a leg and leaned on the wicker back. From that position, the man could see clearly how his fingers entered and exited from it, how the thumb drew wet circles on the clitoris. He responded by showing him the palm of the other hand covered with transparent lubricant that he had pulled out of somewhere, using it to make the skin slip better. Every few minutes, Amparo stopped the movement and he did the same, prolonging the tension. The pleasure grew in waves, never came at all, retreated and returned more intense.
At one point, Amparo stood up, stood up and took off his dress completely. He was naked under the light of the lamp, the curves shaped against the darkness of the sea. The man rose up as well. He lowered his pants and underwear in one movement and was naked in front of it. His erection was curved slightly upwards; his head shone. He approached the railing until he was less than a metre from the edge, so that the distance between the two bodies was reduced to the width of two balconies and the air hole.
Amparo imitated the posture. He leaned his hands on his own handrail and leaned slightly forward, offering a complete view of his hanging breasts and the line of his back descending to his buttocks. The man touched himself more strongly; the wet sound of his hand was audible even at that distance. Amparo slipped one hand between his legs from behind, inserting two fingers into his vagina while with the other he stroked his chest. The orgasm began to climb up his legs. This time he did not stop it. He let the rhythm of his fingers increase, his breathing become irregular, his knees trembled. When he arrived, he let loose a long, hoarse groan that the wind dispersed; his body arched and his internal muscles crept around his own fingers.
On the other side, the man accelerated the movement. He watched Amparo shudder and, in doing so, he also reached the climax. The semen came out in two long pulses that fell on the railing and disappeared into the darkness. He stood still, his hand still around the throbbing limb. Amparo stood, breathing with difficulty, his chest rising and descending.
Several minutes passed before no one moved. Then, the man looked for something inside the living room and came back with a white towel. He cleaned himself slowly, without haste, without shame. Amparo did the same with the dress he had left on the floor; he passed the linen through his thighs and belly before putting it back on. The gesture of covering himself again marked the end of the tacit agreement.
The man raised his hand in a slow, almost military salute. Amparo responded with a head tilt. They did not exchange a single word, not even a phone number. He entered his apartment and turned off the light. She stayed a moment longer on the balcony, feeling the fresh air on the still hot skin, before picking up the bottle of water and the sun lounger.
The next morning, when Amparo went down for breakfast, the attic across the street had the curtains drawn. The doorman handed him an envelope with his name written by hand. Inside there was a card of the urbanization with only two lines: «Tomorrow, same time. The glass keeps the secret». Amparo smiled, kept the card in the pocket of the dress and asked for another coffee.
That night, the ritual was repeated. And the next day too. For four more nights, the two strangers offered themselves the spectacle of their pleasure without touching, without speaking, without promises. On the last day, Amparo found the attic empty and the curtains wide open. On the balcony table there was a second card: “If you ever return, the glass will remain our witness.” Amparo kept it next to the first, closed the sliding door and let the sea take care of the rest.
The End
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