MATCHING SOCKS (only chapter)

- Do you know what happened to me today? - listens Zaco, whose name is Zacarías, while he washes the dishes.

- Meeting with the bosses - Martín appears shirtless in the kitchen doorway -. And one of them says to me, how absent-minded you are, Martín. You’re wearing socks from different pairs. Oh dear, oh dear! Hahaha!

Martín, 45, a broad guy, budding belly, still not many gray hairs and a thick, well-trimmed beard, seems to be telling a simple anecdote, but gradually his smile starts to cool, almost freezing. It remains as if petrified. A disturbing grimace, accompanied by a fixed stare and a brief pause. Zaco lowers his head.

- Go look for an optician, age spares no one, that joker says to me - Martín goes on -. What do you think? What an asshole!

- Well, I don’t know, I ... - Zaco stammers.

- You don’t know? Sure? I do know. I know that wouldn’t have happened to me if someone had been more careful beforehand. And that someone knows how fussy I am about my things.

- I always pay a lot of attention, sir, truly. It seems I got distracted. I am ... very sorry - Zaco feels the world collapsing on top of him.

With his right hand Martín strokes the chin of his ashamed pup. He feels him trembling, feels his forehead begin to sweat. The same thing always happens to Zaco. Deep down, Martín enjoys it. He enjoys the fear that takes hold of the boy when something goes wrong and what he calls a “slight reminder” is coming.

- Two days without shaving, baby - Martín observes while he keeps rubbing the jaw and chin of that boy who came to work two months ago in the warehouse and whom he noticed the moment he came up to the office floor.

The fact is that Martín also caught the young Moroccan looking at him several times. And no detail escaped Martín. It was no longer just how nervous he got and how he stumbled when answering with his poor Spanish. It was the telltale bulge growing between the little “Moor’s” legs when Martín brushed against him on purpose or got too close, like that day in the freight elevator.

A week to find out who he was, where he came from, how long he had been in Spain, and who he lived with. After a few furtive escapes from his office to the warehouse toilets and changing rooms, in which Martín gradually confirmed the boy’s willingness and servile nature, he offered him a place to stay in his house for a while.

He strokes his chin, his face, his jaw. Somehow, his hand opens, extends. His fingers stretch out, tense and separate and all of that lands on Zaco’s cheek. The slap makes the boy stagger. He grabs the countertop and keeps his balance.

- Bend down and take off my shoes.

Zaco unties the laces and removes the shoes.

- Take off my socks.

Zaco does so and before he can put them in the shoes, his Master snatches them from his hands.

- See, asshole? Are they from ...