The truck driver of the shower

I work nights at the rest area. It's not a place that appears in tourist guides or on postcards of Navarre. It's beside the motorway, surrounded by tall pines that sway when the north wind blows and by a silence broken only when a truck brakes in the gravel car park or when some driver opens the door of the place with more force than necessary. The main building is low, made of concrete painted white years ago, with damp stains in the corners and a green awning that moves with the gusts. Inside, the bar is varnished wood, the tables worn Formica, the chairs black plastic. There's a coffee machine that hums from time to time, a microwave, a drinks fridge and the constant smell of toast, burnt coffee and industrial cleaner. The showers are at the back, in a separate building, connected by a short concrete corridor and a metal door that creaks every time someone pushes it. There are three cubicles, a wooden bench, a fogged mirror and a soap dispenser that sometimes doesn't work.

That night the activity was the usual. I'd already been behind the bar for several hours. I had served coffees to two drivers who barely spoke, a tortilla sandwich to a man who arrived with his eyes red from sleep and a bottle of water to a couple who sat at the corner table and left as soon as they finished. The wall clock showed almost two in the morning when he came in. I saw him appear through the main door with the heavy step of someone who has too many kilometres behind him. Tall, broad shoulders that filled the worn leather jacket, dark jeans stained with something that looked like oil, work boots with thick soles. He had a rolled-up towel under his arm and a small bag in the other hand. He came up to the bar without hurrying. He looked at me for only a second, long enough for me to see that he had dark eyes and a chin unshaven for several days.

—A black coffee and a ham sandwich —he said. The voice was deep, a little hoarse, as if he had been silent too long.

I nodded. While I made the coffee in the machine and cut the bread, I watched him out of the corner of my eye. He had big hands, with calluses on the palms and fingers, short nails, a thin scar on the back of his left hand. He paid in cash, left the coins on the bar and waited in silence. When I gave him the coffee and the sandwich wrapped in foil, he murmured a "thanks" and sat at one of the tables near the window. He ate slowly, looking outside, at the pines and the darkness of the motorway. I wiped the bar, dried glasses, refilled the napkin dispenser. Every time I looked up, he was still there, chewing without haste. When he finished, he got up, left the empty cup on the bar, picked up the towel and the bag and headed towards the shower corridor. The metal door creaked open and closed again behind him.

Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. Then twenty. The coffee he had left half-drunk was getting cold on the bar. The area was almost empty. There was only one car parked at the...