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Martín is sure, without an ounce of a doubt, that he is experiencing events of unnatural activity.
It had taken him a couple of weeks to come to this conclusion. He had moved in two month ago, and everything had been more than ok during the first few days. Martín likes his new place. It is an old building, small and crowded. The elevator has been out of order since Martín moved in, there is an unpainted spot of a leak on his roof he needs to get fixed, and the transom window above his living room’s balcony is stuck wide open. All less than ideal, but not unmanagable. The neighbours are nice-ish. So far, he’s only met the old man in 1B who likes to sit on his balcony and listen to tango while he watches the streets below; the happy yet exhausted marriage in 3C with baby twins girls; the young couple in 5D who lives right over his apartment and fights and fucks loud enough to wake the whole building up.
Martín’s new place is far from perfect, but it is his . Before he moved out, he shared a flat with his cousin Sebastián as his roommate, and while Martín adores Sebastián, he is glad to finally have a place of his own. He gets to do whatever he wants, however he wants, whenever he wants, and that is priceless. He has no complaint, no regrets, if it wasn’t for the weird events he has come to notice the last few weeks.
Things go missing, some others appear where Martín didn’t leave them. At first Martín thought he had lost things during the moving, but he soon realizes it is not that. Martín’s clothes disappear - socks and underwear, mainly -, food gets eaten. He hears strange noises in the quiet of the night, but finds nothing when he turns the night on and tries to inspect the source.
“It’s a poltergeist,” he concluded.
Sebastián had laughed in his face, but his cousin was very much an sceptic whose brain worked on hard cold facts. Daniel, his other cousin, had been a little more helpful and sympathetic and had shared a trick or two that should help Martín rid himself of the negative energy that might be causing the problem.
It hadn’t worked
Whatever is causing havoc in Martín’s place is here to stay, and Martín better get used to it.
It is lovely windy Sunday afternoon. The sun is halfway down across the sky, and a strong breeze comes through the balcony door Martín left wide open in his room, bringing in the smell of spring. Martín is back from a football match with his friends, as they usually do every weekend. He arrives home in a particular good mood after a hard earn victory with a last minute goal - by Martín's magical feets, of course. He leaves a change of clean clothes over his bed and goes straight for a much needed shower to rinse all the swear, mud and grass of his body. He steps out of his bathroom, dripping wet and clinging a towel to his waist as he animatedly whistling to himself. The moment he steps into his room he stops his merry little song and freezes in place.
There is a striped cat on Martín’s bed.
The cat stands awkwardly, frozen in place like a deer caught in the highlights. The two stare at each other for a moment with equally surprised wide green eyes. Martín is the first to blink out of his stupor - his eyes trail down to the piece of cloth the cat is holding in its mouth.
It is a pair of grey boxer briefs.
“You,” Martín whispers. He frowns, and grits his teeth as weeks of uncertainty finally unravel. “You little thief. ”
He jumps at the cat, but he falls flat into his face on the bed as the damned critter dashes out of Martín’s reach with its valuable prize in its mouth. It runs out of the room, through the balcony’s door, and Martín swiftly follows after it. He tries to catch the cat, but clings helplessly to the railing when the cat slips through the railing’s bars and jumps to the neighbour’s balcony.
Martín hasn’t met 4C yet; all he knows of them is that they love plants (exhibit A: their balcony looks like a small jungle, brimming with pots of flowers and hanging plants of all kinds and colors) and that they like to blast axé on Sunday mornings, for which he might resent them rightfully so. Now, Martín can add that they own a stealing cat to his list of personal offences.
Martín narrows his eyes at the cat. The critter regards him unimpressed - has the gall to sit down and watch him with bored eyes, unreachable, untouchable, and its prize still in its mouth.
It is then that a strong wind suddenly picks up, and Martín tenses up when he hears the loud slam of a door behind his back. He turns, slowly, to find his balcony’s door shut closed.
“Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he whispers.
He tries to open the door to his room without much success. Next he tries the one that leads to his living room, with the same result. Martín drops his hands, and helplessly stares at the closed doors; he has locked himself out with no place to go.
Martín lets out a curse, and self-consciously adjusts the towel wrapped around his waist as a light flush colors his cheeks pink. Perfect - just perfect.
He turns back to 4C’s balcony and glares. The striped cat sits triumphant on his neighbour’s balcony with Martín’s underwear in its mouth, taunting him to follow.
Martín will not be defeated by a cat.
The space between the two balconies can’t be wider than two foots, a jump any person can very easily make. Martín carefully climbs over his balcony’s railing. He stands facing the free fall, clinging to the railing on his back. It’s a four floor fall, something he really would rather avoid. He lets go of the railing on his back and reaches for the one in front of him, and makes the little jump. He sighs, safe - see, a jump anyone could make. He raises his leg to slip it over the railing and step into his neighbour’s balcony, straddling the railing, and as he is slipping his other leg to finally have both feet on solid ground, the knot of his towel comes undone.
“Oh, fuck, no,” Martín curses under his breath. He clings to the railing with one hand, and with the other tries to get a grasp of the towel as it slides down his hips and thighs. “Shit, motherfucker. ”
The towel helplessly slips between his legs and falls through the space between the balconies. Martín tries to catch it, but loses his balance and in order to avoid following the towel down, he basically dives head first into his 4C’s balcony, spitting curses in the process.
This can’t get any worse , Martín thinks to himself as he lays face down on his neighbour’s balcony, naked as the day he was born.
He slowly raises his head, humiliated and beaten, and frowns at the sight in front of him. The striped cat sits barely out of reach, looking at him with unimpressed judgemental green eyes. The critter still holds his boxer briefs in its mouth.
Recovering them is not a matter of pride anymore, but of dignity and public decency.
Martín slowly raises to his knees and offers the cat a tense unfriendly smile.
“Here kitty, kitty,” he calls gently, slowly edging closer with his hands out in surrender. “Here, here, kitty,” he cooes, and once he is close enough, he launches forward. “Here, you son of a bitch...”
The striped cat effortlessly sneaks past Martíns hands. It jumps over his head and very much uses it as a trampoline to reach the open transom window above his neighbour’s balcony closed doors. The cat gives Martín one last disdainful look before slipping inside, leaving Martín outside, alone and naked. He follows it with his eyes, watches it gracefully drop into his neighbour’s apartment and march triumphant with its tail high and his underwear in his mouth through the balcony doors’ glass window.
Only then Martín notices that his neighbour is home.
4C happens to be a pretty girl with dark skin and lush lips. She is sitting on her couch with a big bowl of popcorn in front of the TV, wearing a fuzzy bubblegum-pink robe and a big puffy bun of black hair on the top of her head. She has the prettiest eyes Martín has seen - big and brown and staring right at him big with surprise as she stares right at him frozen with round stuffed cheeks and a handful of popcorn in her hand.
Martín can feel a furious blush climb up his chest and burn in his face.
He has never been so ashamed in his life.
He swiftly grabs the first thing at hand - a lushful pot of petunias - and holds it in front of himself to cover up his modesty. Trying very hard not to think too much on how uttterly ridicolous he must look to his very pretty neighbour, he tries to offer a smile.
“I-Hi,” Martín clears his throat. “Name’s Martín, I’m your neighbour. Your cat got into my apartment and stole my… clothes...”
The girl doesn’t react, doesn’t move a muscle.
Painful seconds go by without so much as an answer, and Martín can feel himself blush even further - if that was even possible. He clears his throat awkwardly.
“I’m sorry to ask, but may I come in?” he asks, trying to hold his smile. “I kinda locked myself out and, uh, it’s a little chilly out here...”
He is overexposed, and he would very much like to spare himself from being the whole block’s laughing stock.
“Oh,” the girl blinks, finally snapping out of it. She swallows, hastily leaves the popcorn bowl on the coffee table and rushes to her feet a bit clumsily.
“Yes, I-sure,” she opens the door for him and steps back. “Come inside.”
Martín nods his thanks and steps inside. He stands awkwardly, clinging to the pot of petunias for dear life. Painfuly aware he is standing buttnaked in his neighbour’s living room.
Now that he is standing in full height right in front of her, she slowly takes him in from head to toe. Ultimately her eyes settle on the petunias.
Martín fidgets uncomfortably as a wave of warmth washes over him, prickles the back of his neck and makes him wanna curl his toes in. Her gaze is fixed and intense and Martín can almost feel it - if she doesn’t quit that, he is going to have a whole new situation at hand to be further embarrassed about.
“Thank you,” he says with a clipped voice. He clears his throat again, and asks: “I don’t suppose you have anything I could borrow?”
“What?” she asks, mostly on reflex, and blinks up at him.
Her eyes are even prettier up close.
“Some clothes?” Martín tries lamely.
She blinks again, before her eyes go wide with realisation. She apologizes under her breath, and is kind enough to take off her bright pink robe and offer it. Martín looks at the robe, then down at his occupied hands, and finally back at the girl - who seems to be a little distracted with his chest now, openly studying it with lingering gazes.
Martín has to clear his throat again.
“I only have two hands,” he points out.
She looks up confused, and it takes her a solid moment to catch Martín’s dilemma.
“Oh-Oh! Sorry, yes!” she says. “I’ll just leave it here…”
She leaves the robe on the couch, and turns around and walks away. Martín awkwardly puts the pot of petunias down, and takes the pink fuzzy robe. He swiftly slips into it, desperately craving some cloth over his skin, has to conform with it for it is way too small for him. He can barely close it, and it only reaches half of his thigh - Martín will have to be very careful if he doesn’t want anything to slip out.
It is a very undignified look, but honestly Martín has very little dignity left.
The girl is back a moment later. In one hand, safely pressed against her chest, she carries the striped cat. In the other, she holds a familiar bundle of grey cloth.
“I assume these are yours?” she asks with an apologetic smile.
Martín can’t help but glare angrily at the cat.
“Yes,” he says and takes the underwear from the girl’s hand.
“I see,” she says. She makes a face, and nods her head to the side with remorse. “You might want to come with me.”
She guides him to her bedroom, and much to Martín's surprise and alarm, she kneels on the floor. Before he can let out a flustered complaint, she reaches under her bed and takes out a shoebox that she places over the mattress. She silently opens the box, and Martín’s eyes go wide and his cheeks a little red when he peaks inside.
“She’s been bringing them in for weeks,” the girl explains as Martín stares at the wide familiar collection of socks and underwear inside the shoebox. “I never knew where she got them from, so I just… kept them…”
Martín silently and protectively takes the box.
“I have another one,” the girl informs him as if it pained her.
She takes out another shoebox and leaves it on the bed as well. She turns around, and gives Martín some privacy as he slips a pair of briefs on - it is not much, but some underwear at least gives him a little more security, makes him feel a little more contained.
“Do you mind if I use your phone?” he says. In a poor attempt at humor, he pats the robe and adds with a weak smile: “I don’t seem to have mine on myself.”
A tentative smile tugs at the corner of the girl’s lips - much to Martín’s relief and delight -, and she quietly lends him her cellphone.
Sebastián is not surprised when Martín, without going into detail, asks him to bring him his spare keys.
“Let me guess,” Sebastián sighs. “You’ve locked yourself outside again.”
“Something along those lines,” Martín says. “Just bring your keys to my neighbour's. 4C.”
“Your neighbour?” Sebastián asks with picked curiosity.
“It’s a long story,” Martín grumbles unwillingly.
“Right,” Sebastián clicks his tongue. “I’m a little caught up at the moment, but I should be over there in an hour or so.”
“An hour?” Martín repeats, pained.
“Be thankful I’m showing up at all ,” Sebastián replies sharply and hangs up to his face.
Martín sighs defeated, and hands the phone back to the girl.
“Your friend sounded nice,” she jokes with an amused smirk.
“The sweetest,” Martín grumbles.
Sebastián won’t be making it for another hour (or so), and in this conditions Martín has nowhere to go. He is not sure how to politely ask his neighbour if he could crash at her place until Sebastián shows his face, but she is kind enough to get ahead of him.
“You can stay until your friend comes with your keys,” she says. She heads back to the couch and takes the popcorn bowl over her crossed legs. She asks: “Do you like Flames of Untamed Passion?”
Martín blinks at her in confusion.
“Uh?”
“Flames of Untamed Passion,” the girl repeats. She nods her head towards the TV. “You know, the novela?”
“I know what Flames of Untamed Passion is,” Martín answers automatically, almost offended. “And of course I like it.”
Everyone does, and in Martín’s opinion whoever doesn’t should feel ashamed of themselves for being such an uncultured burden to society. Celeste’s love for Alex is the purest thing Martín has ever seen on screen, and he sobbed like a baby when Ariel sacrificed himself for Laura and died - for the third time in two seasons.
“They’re having a marathon on TV,” the girl says. She pats the empty space on the couch and smiles warmly at Martín. “Wanna join me while you wait for your friend?”
Martín doesn’t really have much of a choice.
“I’d love to,” Martín answers honestly.
Her smile widens, brightens up her whole face. She offers some popcorn when Martín sits by her side.
“The name’s Luciana,” she introduces herself.
Luciana, a true guardian angel.
Martín and Luciana are halfway the marathon, with discarded tissues around them as they cling hand to hand while Celeste confesses her undying love to Alexis under the pouring rain, when Sebastián finally shows up.
Sebastián silently hands the key over, and makes a show to take Martín’s appearance in.
“Don’t ask,” Martín growls and a blush climbs up his face.
“Oh, no, I want to hear everything about it,” Sebastián replies calmly. “But not now, I’ve got to run. Later.”
Sebastián leaves, screaming one last ‘In great detail I say, Martín!’ over his shoulder as he goes down the stairs.
Martín can finally go home to nurture what is left of his shattered pride.
“I’m sorry for this. Really. I truly am,” Martín makes a face as Luciana joins him by the front door. “We can forget all about today, nothing would make me happier...”
“It wasn’t so bad,” Luciana shrugs. “I mean sure, this was, top three, one of the weirdest things to ever happen to me,” she frowns to herself for a moment, and corrects: “Top five.”
Martín chuckles, and nervously runs a hand through his hair, hoping Luciana won’t notice the blush that once again has crept to his face.
“Right. I’ll get out of your hair now,” he says. “Thank for everything, really.”
He steps outside and heads for his door, but he doesn’t get far.
“Wait,” Luciana calls him.
Martín turns. Luciana stands leaning by her door, hesitantly chewing on her lip in a way Martín finds utterly charming.
“I… may I have your number?” she asks, and Martín eyebrows go up. “You know, in case Sofía steals your underwear again, of course.”
There is an almost imperceptible darkening of her cheeks, and she is trying very hard to hold back a cheeky smile. Martín stares at her in surprise for a moment - he is surprised she wants to talk to him again after crushing buttnaked into her place.
Well, if he thinks about it, he too would be hooked if a handsome charming stranger with a sensitive heart for novelas fell into his place in the nude. He can barely blame Luciana.
“Sure,” he says. She offers her phone again, and Martín taps his phone number in. “Message me so I can save yours.”
“Will do,” Luciana looks up from her phone with a wide bright smile.
“Call me if that little thief of yours is back at it again,” Martín smiles good-humorously. He adds, as sultry as someone standing in his underwear and a pink short fuzzy robe can; “Or if you happen to want to end Flames of Untamed Passion. We didn’t even get the juicy part yet.”
Luciana smiles mirthfully at him.
“Well, you could always put some pants on and be back for the rest of the marathon,” she replies smugly. “We still are missing Alex’s evil twin brother’s arch after all.”
Martín had never been so eager to slip into some clothes for a girl.
He heads back to his place and swiftly steps into his clothes, making sure to look his best. He grabs his phone, which has an unread message from an unknown number; the picture of a sleeping striped cat. He can’t help to smile despite himself, and his face warms up with a different, pleasant sort of blush as he saves Luciana’s number.
On principle, not to arrive empty handed, he grabs some beers he has on his bridge and heads outside. In his rush he forgets to take the pink robe back with him and only remembers once he is in front of Luciana’s door. He shakes his head - no matter, he decides, he will have plenty of opportunities to return the robe.
Luciana gives him a sultry appreciative one over once she opens the door and lets him back inside.
Martín will have to buy her a little something. A noble uninterested gesture of gratefulness, the fact that Luciana is very pretty has nothing to do with it, of course. She has been very kind and graceful about this whole incident, considering the awkwardness of it. Martín should definitely buy her some chocolates, or flowers considering how much she seems to like them.
A bouquet of petunias, perhaps.