A cold touch brushed your wrists, a fleeting touch that opened the portal between reality and the abyss. In a suspended instant, the world lost gravity. With a sudden jerk, a dull fire awoke in your shoulders: the weight of the steering wheel, the memory of the clutch, the habit of the route. You fell, stopped, a small and cruel vertigo between the air and the silence. There, in that instant torn from time, everything began.

You were a truck driver. One of the old ones. With skin tanned by a thousand dawns in service areas, hands rough from engine grease and solitude clinging to the back of your neck like the sweat of noon on the AP-7. Your life was measured in kilometers, tachographs, and poorly tuned radio stations. You slept in the cabin like a soldier in his trench, embracing the turned-off radio and the crumpled maps you no longer needed. A man without concessions. You were lance and shield. You were the echo of a world where you don't ask, you don't say, you just endure.

The other one —because there's always another— was also a truck driver. A nomad of silence. Only if you were understood could you read him: the way he got down from the truck with his body loaded with route, the gesture with which he placed the rearview mirror, the way he lit a cigarette without seeking company but wanting someone to notice. You didn't talk about emotions. You talked about gears, tolls, driving time. But in the silences, something else was brewing.

"We'll stop for a while," you said with a deep voice. "I have a big cabin to sleep in... that truck stop is excellent."

The sentence floated in the dense air of diesel, dust, and unspoken desire. A yes was drawn without being pronounced. A quiet surrender. The complicity of anonymity.

You had Russian salad from a gas station, sharing the soft plastic of the container as if it were a ritual. Two weathered bodies. Two parallel solitudes, each with its story of poorly slept nights in rest areas. You lay down in your underwear, without touching, like two hyper-heterosexuals on the edge of the game. But the glances spoke. "You're alone. Nobody knows." A wink, an abyss. The engine turned off, the world suspended.

The heat didn't come from the climate. It was internal. Sweat moistened you without thermal justification, heartbeats accelerated without having run, breath was cut off without words. A thick heat like oil in winter, rising from the stomach, trembling on the skin. The lights of the parking lot, filtered by the curtain of the cabin, converted the interior into an intimate theater.

And then you let go. Two men, two parked trucks, two souls who knew perfectly how to hold a steering wheel, how to squeeze a handbrake, and how to maintain direction even when everything trembles.

Yin and yang, up and down. Strength and surrender. Pleasure and containment. The lit lance seeking the longing opening, not to procreate, but to conquer the forbidde...