The sandstorm reached the airport like a brown wall that ate the horizon. In three minutes, the departures board went from having flights to having a row of red CANCELLED, and the lobby filled with people with lost stares and suitcases still standing upright, as if refusing to lay them down kept the trip in the air.
I'd been in that building for twelve hours. Twelve. I'd arrived for the coastal botany conference, with the paper folder under my arm and a Larrea tridentata cutting wrapped in damp paper inside my backpack, and at two in the afternoon the sky turned the color of wet earth and everything stopped existing. The connecting flight, the lecture, the shower I'd been promising myself for half a day. Cancelled, cancelled, cancelled.
The terminal hotel desk had a queue of sixteen people and a receptionist with a mustache from another decade who handed out rooms like a man dealing bad cards.
—There's only one left —he said, when it was my turn—. And there's a gentleman in the same situation as you. If you're okay with it, we'll share it.
The gentleman was beside me with a guitar case over his shoulder and a plastic bag with a half-eaten sandwich. He had the biggest hands I'd ever seen and knuckles full of small calluses, as if they'd been sanded. He looked at me without hurry.
—I don't snore —he said—. For the record.
—I do. Also for the record.
The receptionist slid a single key across the counter and smiled with all his teeth.
—I've seen worse things. Room 214. Last room in the hotel, mind you. And in the city, I'd venture.
—You're staying together, right? —he asked, when we were already leaving.
—That's none of your business —I said.
—It's just that I've got a bet going with the maintenance guy. A bill. You stay.
Two
The room was small, white and honest. One bed. One. With the sheets pulled so tight it looked like a drum. A window facing the parking lot and the wall of sand that was rising out there, and a sign on the wall that said SAVE WATER with a smiling drop.
We left our things on the floor, each in our half of the space, like two countries that have just signed a truce and still don't trust each other.
—Rita —I said.
—Bruno. No surnames, okay? This is one night.
—Okay. No surnames.
—And no phones.
—Works for me. One night.
I said it in the tone of someone closing a formality. I was thirty-three, with a half-finished doctorate on arid-zone plants and a very trained ability not to expect anything from anyone. He was thirty-seven, he said later, and a guitar case that he placed against the wall with a care he didn't give even to his own travel bag.
—A luthier? —I asked, tilting my chin at the case.
—How did you know?
—Your hands. And because you smell of wood.
He looked at his hands as if he'd just found them.
—Right. Well. Sorry.
—Don't apologize, it's the best smell in this airport.
The vending machine dinner
The machine in the hallway had three rows of chips and one of something that said dried fruit. We bought a bag of each and two sachets of coffee, and sat on the edge of the bed with the tray between us, like two castaways sharing the salvage.
—Let's play something —he said, on the third chip—. So we're not here staring at the wall.
—Like what?
—One question each. Taking turns. No surnames, no facts, no lying.
—And if the question is a fact?
—Then you answer it and that's that. We're not going to see each other again anyway.
I laughed. It sounded truer than I expected.
—I'll start —I said—. Why are you taking a guitar on a two-hour flight?
—Because I take it everywhere. It's a small travel guitar. I built it myself. I take it places to see how the woods sound with the humidity of each place. In the desert it sounds like cardboard, but oh well. It'll sound better at home.
—You're a romantic about wood.
—I'm a bore about wood. Your turn.
I thought for a second. I decided not to be clever.
—What's the last thing you fixed with those hands?
Something moved in his face. A small surprise, as if he'd expected a filler question.
—A chair. A wobbly chair from my sister's kitchen. I put a walnut wedge in it and waxed it. —He bit a chip—. And you? What do you smell of, that you smell of earth?
—I study desert plants. I collect soil all day. I've got a cutting in my backpack, actually. It's called Larrea and it's the toughest plant I know. You can throw twenty years of drought at it and it's still there, green, with a tar smell that knocks you back.
—Show me.
I took it out. I unwrapped it carefully and the smell got into the room, green and sour, like a miniature forest. Bruno leaned in, got down to the level of the cutting and smelled it slowly, eyes closed, like someone tasting a wine.
—It smells of place —he said—. Of real place. Can I touch it?
—Yes.
He ran his thumb over a leaf, very softly, and I felt the gesture in my stomach before I felt it anywhere else. He wrapped it up again. He left it on the nightstand with the same care he'd left the guitar with.
—My turn —he said—. When was the last time you slept with someone?
—Sleep or sleep?
—Sleep. The other thing I'll ask later.
—Two years and four months ago. A colleague from the department. It was polite and boring and he left a charger that wasn't mine and never came back for it. —I drank coffee—. And you?
—Longer. And I don't miss it, for the record. I miss other things.
—Like what?
—Like someone asking me things. —He wiped the crumbs off his fingers—. What's your favorite thing to have done to you?
The question caught me mid-chip and I swallowed it badly.
—In bed, I mean —he clarified—. For the record, I'm not asking out of interest.
—Of course not.
—Well, yes, I'm asking out of interest.
I just looked at him. The lamp hit one side of his face and left the other in shadow, and I thought he was the calmest man I'd met in years, and that calm, when it's real, is the most exciting thing there is.
—Being looked at —I said—. Not having eyes turned away. And no hurry.
—That's easy.
—Yeah, well. Easy is what gets done the least.
He went quiet for a moment. Then he left the bag of chips on the tray, the tray on the floor, and there was nothing between us anymore.
Eleven minutes of feigned courtesy
It was one of those beds that sinks in the middle. We lay down each on our edge, hands on top of the bedspread, like two wax figures in a museum.
—I sleep on the right —he said.
—I'm on the left.
—Perfect. There we go.
—There we go.
We set the alarm for seven. We turned off the light. The storm pounded the window with a canvas noise. I counted to sixty. I counted to a hundred and twenty. After eleven minutes, more or less, we both knew neither of us was sleeping, and neither of us said anything, and the gap in the middle of the bed started to seem like a ridiculous abyss.
—Rita.
—What?
—That if you want, I'll come closer and look at you.
My whole mouth went dry.
—Come closer.
He turned. The parking lot light came through the gap in the curtain and split his face in two. He looked at me the way he'd looked at the cutting: slowly, without a catalog, as if there were something worth the trouble. And then he laid his open hand in the gap of the bed, between us, not touching yet.
I put mine on top.
—Do you know I've been thinking about the shower in this room all day? —I said—. Twelve hours of airport. My hair looks like a nest.
—I'll come with you to check it. In case the hot water doesn't work.
—Very helpful.
—I'm a luthier. I adjust things.
The shower
The bathroom was tiny and white, with one of those shower trays that go cold as soon as you turn off the water. I opened the tap. It came out hot on the second try. The room filled with steam in a minute, and with the steam the noise of the storm turned distant and soft, and suddenly we were both standing in a very small place with very few clothes on.
Bruno took off his T-shirt with the deliberateness of a man who has nothing to prove. He had a broad chest and a thin scar on his side, from something old. He stood there, waiting, without taking a step.
—Shall I undress you? —I asked.
—However you like.
I unbuttoned his pants. I pulled them down. I pulled down his underwear too and he breathed in deep when I brushed him with my knuckles. He wasn't fully hard yet; he got there in my hand as I held him, and seeing that, seeing a man get like that for me in an airport hotel shower, gave me a heat that had nothing to do with the water.
I undressed. Without hurry. Without hiding anything. He didn't look away for a second, and when I was in front of him, all of me, he said:
—Fuck, Rita.
—Yeah.
We got in. The water fell on the back of our necks and he put both hands on the tile behind me and came close until his chest brushed my breasts. The tile was cold and the water hot, and being between the two things was like being between two truths.
—Can I? —he asked.
—You can.
He kissed me. It wasn't an urgent kiss; it was a kiss that takes its time, that opens the mouth slowly and stays there, and his hands still on the tile until I put mine on his waist to tell him enough. Then one hand went to my hair, wet, and the other came down my side, over my hip, and stopped on my thigh, and went up.
He touched me with two fingers, palm open, and I threw my head back against the tile and let out a sound I hadn't heard in a long time. He heard it and repeated the gesture, and then another, slower, deeper, looking for the rhythm that made me dig my fingers into his waist. The water fell between us, and he watched me, didn't look away, and I remembered what I'd said: that they look at me, that they don't hurry. He was keeping all of it.
—Like that —I said—. Like that, don't stop.
—I don't plan to.
I came standing up in the shower, with the water falling on my face and one of his hands on the back of my neck so I wouldn't slip, and it was a long, simple orgasm, without fuss, the kind that leaves your legs weak and your head empty. I stayed panting against his shoulder, mouth open on his wet skin.
—You've left me dopey —I said.
—Good.
I brought his hand down to his cock, which was hard and heavy against my belly. I wrapped my hand around it and started moving it, and he rested his forehead on the tile next to my head and let me. He liked it slow too; his breath caught at the same point every time and he made a small sound in his throat, like a string being tightened.
—Do you want to come like this? —I asked.
—I want to come inside you. If that's okay.
—It's okay.
We turned off the tap. We dried badly, in swats, laughing at the small towel and our wet feet, and we went out into the room holding hands like two people who've done something forbidden, which in a way was true.
The bed
The bedspread ended up in a heap on the floor. We got under the sheet and the first minute was about settling, knees crossing and elbows in the way, until he laughed and said:
—Wait, my foot's gone into the nightstand.
—Your foot where?
—In the nightstand. In the drawer. I don't know. —He pulled—. There. Got it.
—What a disaster.
—Hey, I've had a guitar in a case on my back since eleven this morning. I'm not elegant today.
He stayed on top of me, propped on his elbows, and the humor faded on its own. He looked at me from above. I pushed the wet hair off his forehead.
—Do you have a condom? —I asked.
—In my wallet. Three.
—Three? Were you prepared, sir?
—I was coming to a lutherie conference, not to hook up. The three have been in the car's glove compartment since March.
—Very well, since March. Let no one say we're not practical.
He put it on and positioned himself. The first thrust was short and tentative, and the next two as well, until he found the angle and then yes, then he went all the way in and I lifted my hips to take him and let out my breath all at once.
—Okay? —he asked.
—Very okay. Don't stop.
He didn't stop. He had a deep, steady rhythm, without surges, and every time I said something he adjusted to it like someone tuning an instrument, with an attention that was almost dizzying. I put my hands on his ass and squeezed so he'd go harder. He went harder.
—Like that, fuck —I said.
—Yeah?
—Yeah. More.
He lifted one of my knees and changed the angle, and suddenly every thrust hit a spot that made me squeeze my eyes shut. I dug my nails into his back. He moaned quietly and buried his face in my neck.
—Rita —he said, mouth against my skin—. You're putting me in a tight spot.
—What tight spot?
—That I don't want to come yet and you're squeezing a lot.
I laughed beneath him.
—Hold on, luthier. You're good at adjusting.
He raised his head and looked at me with shining eyes.
—You're wicked.
—Not wicked. Practical.
He kissed me and kept going, slower, holding on, and I wrapped my legs around his waist so he wouldn't leave. The sweat made us slide against each other. I put my hand between us and touched myself while he kept going, and when he felt me do it his rhythm broke for a moment and he had to stop, breathe, and come back.
—Don't you stop now —he said—. Please.
—I don't plan to.
I came again, face turned against the pillow and his name half in my mouth, and he held on for three more thrusts and then sank down with a long moan and stayed trembling on top, his whole weight spread out, forehead on my shoulder.
We stayed like that. The storm went on at the window. Outside, the world was a wall of sand; inside, the world was a hotel bed with two strangers who got along.
—My arm's gone to sleep —he said after a while.
—You're so old.
—Old and heavy. I know.
He rolled off. He took off the condom, tied it, threw it on the floor with terrible aim and lay back down beside me. His breathing was still a little shaky.
—Do you know what the weirdest thing is? —he said.
—What?
—That I'm not embarrassed. Normally, with someone new, I get embarrassed even breathing hard.
—Me too. With the before-the-shower part. —I turned toward him—. You know what? I'm not even a little sleepy.
—Me neither.
—We can play another round. If you want.
—No surnames?
—No surnames. And with the light on, since we've already seen enough of each other.
Three more questions
—What's your favorite thing about your job? —I asked, lying face up, sheet to my waist.
—When a wood has been dry for twenty years and I put my hand on it and know what it needs. —He stared at the ceiling—. It's not magic. It's listening. All my life I've been good at listening to things that don't speak.
—That's very beautiful and very sad at the same time.
—It's both. —He turned—. Your turn? No, wait, it's mine. What do you do when you're sleepless?
—Name plants. In Latin. Mentally. It's incredibly boring and it works.
—Tell me one.
—Atriplex hymenelytra.
—It sounds like a spell.
—It's a shrub. Silver leaves. It grows in the driest places in this desert.
—I'd like to see it.
—It's all over out there. Well, not now, now it's under the storm.
—When it passes.
—When it passes.
He went quiet. Then:
—Do you think tomorrow, when it passes, we're going to act like nothing happened?
—I don't know. That's what people usually do.
—I'm terrible at what people usually do.
I turned and put my hand on his chest, over his heart, which was going fast.
—Me too. But we said one night.
—We said one night —he repeated, and it didn't sound like a sentence.
Sunrise in the belly of the terminal
We actually fell asleep around four-something, tangled and uncovered, and at seven the alarm went off on the nightstand like a punishment. The storm had stopped. Through the gap in the curtain came a clean orange light, the kind there only is after the sky has emptied itself of everything.
—What a lousy alarm —said Bruno.
—What a lousy day.
—No. Not the day. The day's fine. It's the alarm.
We got dressed without saying much. We went down to the lobby and the terminal was another place: the windows were opaque with dust, the benches had a brown layer, and a sweeper machine went around the hallway like a domestic animal. The bar was open. We ordered two coffees and he took the sandwich from the night before out of the bag, which had survived, and split it in half without asking.
—It's dry —he said—. But it's what there is.
—So romantic.
—I told you I'm not elegant today.
We sat on a bench with the coffees on our knees and the orange light coming through the dirty windows. He had his hand in mine and didn't let go, not even to drink, and it seemed fine to me; it seemed to me that hand was the only thing tying me to the ground.
—My flight leaves at eleven —I said.
—Mine at ten thirty.
—Well. There we go.
—There we go.
And then, both at once, we started saying things and talked over each other.
—I could…
—If you wanted…
We laughed. Something caught in my throat.
—We said no phone —I said—. And no surnames. And it makes me furious.
—Me too. But if we break it, it breaks. And this night has been good. I don't want it ruined by a message three days later saying how are you.
—How are you —I repeated—. How awful.
—How awful —he said, and squeezed my hand.
Two objects
When I got up to go to the gate, he slipped something into my pants pocket without me seeing. I noticed it when I reached the security line, a hard, thin lump, and I took it out: it was a guitar string. The third. It was knotted in the middle, with a small, perfect knot, the kind that doesn't come undone.
When I turned around, he was still on the other side of the glass, case over his shoulder. He raised his hand. I raised the string. And then I turned around and went through security, and there was no scene, no I'll text you, no promise.
On the plane, when I opened my backpack to put the cutting away, I realized a page was missing from my field notebook. He'd torn it out at some point, I supposed, with the corner folded and the Larrea notes on it. The page where I'd drawn the flower and put the date.
Six months
Six months give you a lot. Enough to finish the doctorate. Enough to move to a city with more humidity and less dust. Enough to remember a night less and less and a knotted string more and more, because I had it pinned to the wall with a tack, above my desk, and I looked at it every day the way you look at something you haven't quite understood.
It was a Tuesday in April when I walked into the instrument shop. I needed a frame. It sounds odd, but the string didn't fit in any store-bought frame, so I'd gone to ask about a custom one, and the instrument shop was the only one in the neighborhood that made wooden frames.
It smelled of varnish and sawdust. There were guitars hanging from the ceiling like sleeping bats. And behind the counter, with a piece of sandpaper in his hand and his glasses pushed up on his forehead, was Bruno.
He looked up. The sandpaper stayed in the air.
—Hi —I said.
—Hi.
—I've come to have a string framed.
His mouth moved. A small, crooked smile, the kind that starts and doesn't dare arrive.
—A string?
—Yes. The third. It's knotted in the middle. It's a very good knot, by the way.
He put down the sandpaper. He wiped his hands on his apron, slowly, and then opened a counter drawer and took out a guitar case, an old, worn case, and set it down carefully. He opened it.
Inside, in the lid's compartment, taped with painter's tape, was the page from my notebook. The drawn flower, the date, the Larrea notes in my tight handwriting.
—It's not like I was good at forgetting it either —he said.
I stepped up to the counter. He did the same from the other side. We stayed there, with a knotted string in my hand and a torn-out page between us, and through the open door came the April sun and the noise of the street, and in the air, mixed with the varnish, there was a faint, green, sour smell of real place.