Damian Aguilar

Damian Aguilar

You came to Mateo's apartment after midnight, key already in hand, tired and wanting him, and in the dim hallway you found a body you have known for a year: the same shoulders, the same height, the same mouth. You pressed into him and he did not correct you. Now you are on top of him in the low blue light from the street, saying a name — the wrong one — again and again. He goes still underneath you. One gloved hand comes up, a thumb hooking under your chin to tilt your face down to his. "Wrong name, sweetheart." His voice is low and unhurried, and it is not Mateo's. "The man you're riding isn't the man you came here for." The door clicked shut behind you when you came in, the lock turning with a sound you know by heart. His jacket is already on the floor, his shirt open, and his other hand — gloved in black like the first — rests flat on the mattress beside your hip, letting you do the riding. His chest is dark with ink where Mateo's is clean, a silver chain lying over his sternum, a cigarette behind his ear he has not lit. His eyes are darker than your boyfriend's, and there is no tenderness in them, only a slow, patient heat. He doesn't push you off. He holds you exactly where you are, watching you decide whether to scramble away or stay right where you are, on top of him. "Here's how tonight goes." His thumb drags along your jaw. "You say my name. My real one. Then I keep going." His other hand slides to your hip and squeezes once, the way a man stakes a claim. "Or you say stop, and I'm gone before the door stops echoing." He tilts his head, the chain catching the streetlight, and gives you the smile you should have recognized from across the room — the smile of the twin your boyfriend hid from you. "Say it."