The workshop of the time stopped
The first ray of sun of October entered oblique through the windows of the workshop and lit a thin layer of dust that floated on the work benches. The place smelled of old oil, hot metal and, in the background, coffee that had already been done for hours. Mark, with his shirt open up to his waist and sleeves rowed, checked the clutch of a Peugeot diesel when he heard the tinting of the door.
"Good," said a snoring voice bearing the imprint of all the tobaccos he no longer smoked. "Andrew, the watchmaker on the bottom across the street, came in with his hands tucked in the pockets of his coat. She had the American one badly fastened, a black ink stain on her shirt's fist."I come for the key to the counter you left me. The window light doesn't work.
Mark joined. He was forty-eight years old, shoulders wide for years of lifting engines and a two-day beard that bit him on the left cheek. He stretched his arm toward the ledge and passed over the key without looking away. Andrew was thin, forty-five, and always seemed about to escape through the door.
"Stay a moment," said Mark, bluntly. "I feel like we have been avoiding each other since March.
Andrew let go of a short laugh, almost dry, but he did not leave. He closed the door with his heel and leaned against the frame. The workshop was empty; five o’clock on a long Thursday afternoon and no one came to pick up cars until tomorrow. Marcos dried his hands on a blue rag and approached. The space between them shrunk as if two magnets began to recognize his field.
"Avoiding us?" said Andrew, the lower voice. "You work with your hands and I work with magnifying glasses. There is not much to be avoided.
Marcos pointed out the door to the small office in the background.
"There's a sofa. There's whiskey. And there's a score pending from the time I fixed your car and you refused to charge me for checking that wall clock you brought me.
Andres rolled his head. He had clear eyes and a tiny scar on his left eyebrow, a gift of a broken glasses frame years ago. He nodded and walked toward the office. Marcos closed the workshop inside. The sound of the bolt sounded like a final point.
The office was a six-square-meter piece with a worn-out black leather sofa, a low table and a buzzing radiator. Marcos served two whisky fingers in two glasses and stretched them out. Andres took off his coat, folded it on the back of a chair and accepted the glass. His fingers were rubbed when he handed it over.
"I drink to the accounts that are settled in the same currency," said Mark.
They drank in silence. Alcohol opened a hot road down the throat. Andrew left the glass and passed his tongue through his lower lip, slowly. Mark, standing in front of him, took his shirt off his head. The broad chest, black hair between the pectorals, an ancient scar on his left shoulder. Andrew looked at him without pretending he was not looking.
"I can go," he offered, though his body did not move.
"I don't want you to leave," answered Mark, of course. "He came close until Andrew's knees brushed his. "Tell me no and you leave. Tell me yes and you stay."
Andres lifted his chin. The gesture amounted to a signature. Marcos bowed his head and kissed him. The first brush was dry, almost clumsy, because the two were used to measuring distances and now there was none. The second kiss already carried tongue, teeth, the taste of whisky and the urgency they had kept for months. Marcos plunged his fingers into Andrew’s neck, pulled him forward and felt the watchmaker standing up, sticking his bodies. Andrew’s hands went down Marcos’ back, exploring the grooves of the muscles, stopping in the belt of the cowboys. He unbuttoned the first button and then the next one without haste, but without stopping.
Marcos turned away just enough to take off Andrew’s shirt. The body that appeared was long, pale, with a thin line of hair coming down from his navel to get lost in his pants. Marcos passed his palm open through Andrew’s chest and felt the nipple hardening under his fingertips. Andrew released a low sound, almost a protest, and bit Mark’s collarbone. The small, precise pain lit something deeper.
"Sofa," murmured Mark against Andrew's mouth.
He pushed him softly until Andrew fell seated. Mark knelt between his legs, opened his belt with one hand and lowered his zipper. The smell of neutral soap and hot skin came to meet him. Andrew lifted his hips so that Marcos could lower his pants and black briefs to his ankles. Andrew’s sex was half hard, thick, with his head already bright. Marcos held it in his hand, squeezed it from the base to the gland and felt it grow at all between his fingers.
"I can stop whenever you want," he said, looking into his eyes.
"Don't stop," answered Andrew, a snoring voice.
Mark bowed his head and licked the glans first, slowly, picking up the drop that was already pearly. Then he opened his mouth and swallowed it as far as he allowed his throat. Andrew threw his head back against the back of the sofa and let go a long groan. His hands looked for Marcos’ head, not to push, but to anchor. Marcos sucked with a steady rhythm, going up and down, wetting everything with saliva, and when he noticed that Andrew trembled too close to the limit, he turned away.
He stood up, lowered his jeans and briefs in one movement and released his own erection, long, slightly curved to the left, marked veins. Andrew stretched his hand and closed it around the axis, going up and down with the same measure that Marcos had given him. The mechanic grunted, bowed and kissed Andrew again, sharing the taste of both.
"There is lubricant in the drawer," said Mark against Andrew's mouth. "And condoms.
Andres nodded. Marcos opened the drawer on the table, pulled out the pot and the silver square, and spread it to Andrew. He tore the wrapper with his teeth, put the latex on Mark’s tip and unrolled it to the base with precise fingers. Then he opened the boat and put lubricant on two fingers. He only got up to put his hand between his own legs and prepare. Marcos looked at him, fascinated by Andrew’s concentration, for how he bit the lower lip as he opened for him.
When he was ready, Andrés turned and leaned on the back of the sofa, offering his buttocks. Marcos stood behind, took his own sex with one hand and passed it first between his buttocks, smearing lubricant, rubbing his anus without going in yet. Andrés breathed deep.
"Now," he asked.
Marcos pushed. The head passed the muscle ring and stopped for a moment, letting Andrés get used to it. Then he continued to move in an inch by inch, slowly, until he was completely inside. The heat and pressure wrapped him up. Both of them let a grunt out in unison. Marcos leaned one hand on Andrew’s hip and the other on his shoulder, and began to move with long and deep onslaughts. Every time he came in at all, Andrés released a cut-off sound that Marcos mentally kept for later. The rhythm went up. The sofa creaked. The smell of sweat and lubricant filled the office.
Andres joined a little, leaned his back against Marcos’ chest and looked for his mouth blindly. They kissed twisted, without stopping to fuck. Marcos’s hand went down and closed around Andrew’s sex, masturbating him to the beat. Andres trembled, warning that he was near. Marcos accelerated the movement of his hand and plunged his teeth into the watchmaker’s shoulder, not enough to mark, but he did so that Andrés gasped and ran between his fingers, colliding around the penis that crossed him. Marcos continued to ram three, four more times, until the orgasm went up his spine and ejaculated him into the condom with a severe grunt against Andrew’s neck.
They stood still, still united, recovering their breath. The radiator kept buzzing. Marcos withdrew carefully, he cast his condom and threw it into the trash. Andres turned around, fell on the couch and threw Marcos to sit next to him. They kissed again, now without haste, exploring the peace that comes next.
"I will return tomorrow for the key," said Andrew, the voice snoring but with a small smile in the corners.
"Stay tonight," said Mark. "Tomorrow I will give you another key."
Andrew did not answer with words. He only closed his eyes and leaned his head on the mechanic’s wide shoulder. Outside, the neighborhood followed its slow pace, alien to the workshop where two men had decided to stop counting the months they had been avoiding.
The End
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