Master Carlos, latex and the faggot (3)- Shop window

The following week, Gabriel returned to the office and Carlos greeted him like anyone else.
—Good morning.

Nothing more. The coffee machine, two jokes with the guys next to him, and back to his desk. As if nothing had happened. As if he hadn't been the one who put the latex on him and left the marks on his hip.

And that was the worst part. Gabriel spent the entire Monday staring at the office door, waiting for a look, a gesture, anything. Nothing. Carlos worked, talked on the phone, laughed with the others. Gabriel went home with his body feeling strange, as if something had been emptied out of him.

He saw the gloves on Tuesday, by chance. He had gone down to copy some papers and on his way back he heard a snap at the end of the hallway. Carlos's office door was ajar. He stopped.

Carlos was sitting, with the bottle of lubricant open on the desk and a pair of black latex gloves in front of him. He put one on. He put the other on. And then he greased them, slowly, finger by finger, until they shone.

In theory it was to go down to the warehouse. Everyone knew: Carlos put on the gloves and went down to move boxes when no one else wanted to. But he didn't go down. He stayed seated, with his hands shining on the desk, looking at them.

Gabriel ran off.

On Wednesday he passed by the hallway again. Thursday too. On Friday he wasn't hiding as much: he leaned on the corner, with the folder against his chest, looking through the crack. And Carlos let himself be watched. He greased up facing the door, unhurried, running his thumb over his knuckles, as if there were no one on the other side. He knew he was there from the first day. And that's why he did it every afternoon at the same time.

He didn't say anything to him. There was no need.

The following Monday Gabriel was at the crack again, breathing short, when the door suddenly opened.

Carlos, with the gloves on and shining, looked him in the face. He didn't get angry. He didn't ask for explanations. He just held his gaze for a second and said, curtly:

—Come to my house this afternoon. Today I'll grease you up.

And he closed the door.

Gabriel stood in the hallway, with the folder trembling in his hands, not knowing what to do with his face.

At seven he was at the landing. He knocked. The door opened and Carlos was standing there with the full suit on, black, tight, greased to a shine under the hallway light. He gestured for him to come in.

—Come in.

In the living room, on the table, there were two lines already laid out.

Gabriel stood looking at them.

—One to start —he said— and another so the latex goes on better, right?

Carlos smiled.

—Yes. That's it.

He handed him the glass of juice. Gabriel took it and drank, and the juice had a bitter undertone that wasn't from the orange, it was from the GHB, and within minutes h...