By Isa González
He turns on the light and prepares to occupy the vast space. He begins with slow movements, tracing circles with his heels, stretching his arms, swaying his head side to side until his naked body awakens. I can’t stop observing his long limbs—the biceps, thighs, and calves of strong, fibrous muscle. I study the keloid scar between his nose and upper lip, the member hanging meekly between his legs. Once accustomed to his presence, I adjust the zoom and scan through the lens the space where he performs his dance routine. A chair, a desk with a pile of M&M bags stacked at its base, a speaker, and a pair of sandals.
The neighbor’s heels lift off the floor, his weight shifting to the metatarsals and toes of his bare feet. Opium by Dead Can Dance blares from the speaker—voices and instruments cut across the street and burst abruptly through my open window. His naked body is a desert. I zoom in; his damp pores dilate. His inert face barely shows a slight parting of thick, parched lips. The young man’s advances and shifts are more than dance—they are lament. Pure light and shadow, pure body: fire.
I take off my clothes—first the skirt, then the button-up blouse, the bra, and finally the matching satin thong. My hairs stand on end from the sudden warm gust rushing through the window. I watch him without blinking; I focus the camera on him, snap a shot, and set it down on the table. Beat and pause.
Naked, I sway without losing sight of him. My heated skin communes with his, body to body. An invisible thread binds us, urging us into asymmetrical movements.
At the end of his routine, he stretches until his body is completely still, drenched in sweat, his curly hair licking his collarbones. Like every night, he lines up the M&M’s on the desk. I grab the camera and focus. A drop of sweat falls onto the wooden surface. This time, he separates the blue ones.
I zoom in, my sweaty fingers slipping on the lens casing. The click of my camera echoes in my head. He places one on his tongue; his nostrils flare. I focus on his neck, his Adam’s apple—damp, pulsing as he swallows. His lips part, waiting for the next. I take one last shot. My feet carry me to the table where I’ve left the little packets. I open one, hoping for several candies of the same color. I wipe my sweaty palms on my thigh. I line up the candies and pop one into my mouth. My heart pumps slowly, surrendered. Beat after beat, lips stained blue, saliva and sweat tinged blue. I close my eyelids and recline into the armchair. My limp body sinks into the velvet upholstery. My damp skin is desert, infinite, nothing.
