ANGEL AND JOAQUIN

The night in the Gràcia neighborhood, the one that smells of jasmine and the gasoline of motorbikes parked double-file, a quarter to twelve on a Thursday in September. Ángel goes down the stairs of his building with the black garbage bag, his flip-flops going clap clap against the marble of the landing. The entrance hall smells of bleach and the broth of Mrs. Carmen, the woman from the second floor.

The street is empty. The little square where the retirees sit to watch time pass is deserted, the yellow streetlights painting circles of light over the cobblestones. Ángel walks toward the green dumpster, the bag weighing little—dinner scraps, a can of tuna, the peel of a fruit—and that’s when he sees him.

A guy. Thirty-something. Designer tracksuit, that dark blue one with the white stripes that costs a month’s salary. Impeccable sneakers. And a dog, a German shepherd lying at his feet like a statue. The guy isn’t even looking at his phone. He’s there, smoking a cigarette, the ash falling slowly, as if he were waiting for something.

Or someone.

“Evening,” Ángel says, his voice more confident than he feels.

“Evening,” the guy replies, and smiles at him.

Ángel throws the bag away. The dumpster makes that usual hollow sound. The lid falls. And when he turns around, the guy is still there, looking at him.

“Taking out the trash?” the guy asks.

“Yes.”

“I’m Joaquín. And you’re Ángel.”

And Ángel freezes. Because he hasn’t told him his name. He doesn’t know him from anywhere. And then he thinks of all the true-crime series he’s watched, all the stories about strangers in entryways, the crime-section headlines.

But Joaquín smiles. Not a predator’s smile. A tired, sincere smile, of someone who hasn’t been in a new place long and doesn’t know anyone.

“I figured it out,” Joaquín says, as if reading his fear. “I saw you go into number seven, and I thought: ‘what a handsome guy lives in that building.’ Then you came out. Coincidence. Or not.”

Ángel laughs, nervous.

“Damn, man.”

“Do you like smoking joints?”

The question is so direct, so blunt, that it throws Ángel off. Usually people beat around the bush. Meet for coffee. Talk about the weather. This guy gets to the point.

“I’ve tried it a few times.”

“Then come up to my apartment and we’ll smoke one of the good ones. I live right next door. Feel like it?”

And Ángel, who would never do this in a suspense movie, says yes.

-

Joaquín’s apartment is a single man’s apartment. Single man’s apartments: white walls, functional furniture, a big TV, speakers in the corners, a kitchen with two plates and a steel Italian coffee maker. In the living room, a big black leather sofa that looks like a bed. And on the little table, a tray with toba...