Chapter 1: El pasillo y el sujetador
The bell shrieked through the hallway, a sound that always made Martín’s teeth ache. The door to Classroom 2B burst open and a tide of backpacks and bored faces washed out into the fluorescents. He shuffled with the current, head down, the strap of his bag digging into his shoulder.
He saw her before she saw him. Marta was leaning against a bank of taupe lockers, one knee bent, foot flat against the metal. She was pretending to look at her phone, but her whole body was angled toward the classroom door like a radar dish. Her dark hair was in one of those messy ponytails that meant she’d been running her hands through it. As he tried to melt into the crowd flowing left, her head snapped up.
A grin split her face. Not a friendly one. A predator’s grin.
“¡Martín! Espérame, tío.”
She pushed off the lockers and cut through the flow of students with a shocking directness. She planted herself directly in his path, forcing him to stop or walk into her. He stopped. The smell of cheap body spray and the underlying, sweeter scent of her shampoo hit him first.
“Qué pasa,” he muttered, his eyes darting to the scuffed linoleum over her shoulder.
“Nada, aburrimiento mortal en Química.” She rocked back on her heels, that smile not fading. She was wearing a thin, grey cotton top. He knew, without wanting to know, exactly what kind of bra she had on underneath—one of those seamless ones that did a lot of architectural work. He could see the faint line of the band beneath the fabric.
She followed his gaze to her own chest and her grin widened. “Bua, este top,” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. She hooked her thumbs under the neckline of her shirt, not pulling it down, just stretching it taut as she adjusted the straps of her bra underneath. It was a slow, deliberate fumbling. The soft, full weight of her breasts shifted and settled visibly under the thin grey cotton, the movement a clear, unambiguous silhouette. “Joder, cómo se notan, ¿no crees?”
Martín felt a hot wave crawl up his neck. He willed himself to look at the emergency exit sign at the end of the hall. “No sé, Marta.”
“Qué sí, hombre, míralas.” She took a half-step closer. The space between them evaporated. He could feel the heat coming off her. “Parece que les ha dado por crecer esta semana. No me jodas.” She gave a little laugh and, as if to emphasize the point, she shifted her weight. Her chest brushed against his forearm.
It was not an accident. The contact was firm, a soft, unmistakable pressure through two layers of fabric. He jerked his arm back as if shocked.
“Tranquilo,” she purred, her eyes glittering. “No muerden.” She didn’t move away. Instead, she leaned in, tilting her head. “A no ser que tú quieras.”
“Marta, deja de decir tonterías.” His voice came out tighter than he intended.
“¿Tonterías?” She feigned offense, placing a hand over her heart, which only drew more attention to the curve beneath. “Te estoy haciendo un comentario sobre moda. Es un hecho. Este top es traicionero. Mira.” She grabbed his wrist.
He froze. Her fingers were warm, her grip surprisingly strong. She didn’t yank, but guided his hand, palm flat, until the back of his knuckles rested against the firm swell of her left breast. The cotton was warm. He could feel the lace edge of the cup beneath it, and the rapid, steady drumbeat of her heart. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
“Nota,” she whispered, her breath hot near his ear. “Mi ritmo cardíaco. Se acelera cuando estás cerca. Es científico.”
For a second, he was paralyzed. The sensation was a confusing jumble: the shocking intimacy, the public setting, the sheer audacity of her. And beneath that, a treacherous, involuntary spark of something else. He snatched his hand back, his face burning.
“Estás loca,” he breathed, shoving his now-tingling hand deep into his pocket.
“Quizás.” She shrugged, completely unfazed, as if she’d just shown him a new ringtone. Her smile was triumphant. She’d gotten to him again, and they both knew it. She reached up and tugged her ponytail looser, a casual, victorious gesture. “Bueno, me voy al taller. Te dejo con la imagen.” She turned to go, then threw a glance over her shoulder. Her dark eyes traveled down his body and back up, slow and appraising. “Piensa en lo que te haría con ese cuerpo, Martín. Te vendría bien.”
She walked away, her medium, round backside swaying just enough in her tight jeans to make the walk a statement. He didn’t move until she turned the corner. The hallway felt suddenly cooler, emptier. He let out a shaky breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.
His forearm still tingled where she’d brushed against him. The phantom pressure of her heart beating against his knuckles pulsed in his memory. He shook his head hard, as if to dislodge the sensation, and finally started walking toward the stairs, his own steps clumsy. He kept his eyes on the worn steps, on the gum fossilized near the railing, on anything else.
But his treacherous mind replayed the scene on a loop: the stretch of grey cotton, the deliberate adjustment, the heat, the weight, the beat. And try as he might, he couldn’t un-feel it.