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To him, she is an escape.
Her hair cascades around her shoulders, sticking to her skin in the wet heat of the Colombian night. Javi buries his face there, in the crook of her neck, and forgets where he is.
That’s what Javier needs more than anything. To forget .
Now, he can still smell her perfume as he sits idly at his desk, as if she was still straddling his lap and not somewhere else now. The hour is late, the night is hot, and a narco needs a fuck.
A spider picks its way along its web in the space between two cardboard boxes of files, brought up from evidence after having not been touched for years. It’s Javi’s job to file through those tonight, and as the moon illuminates the trees and the fluorescent lights flicker and fill the room with a harsh glow, he tries to carry himself away.
Helena. Perhaps no woman has ever been less his, and yet somehow there’s a piece of her tied up within him. He pays her, even when she refuses, even if it means tucking bills in the cushions of her couch as he pretends to reach for a cigarette. He pays her, but when he loses himself in the softness of her body, the tangle of her hair, the warmth of her cunt… she pays him, too.
The spider stops, angles a leg up and appears to clean its face. The web casts the hint of a shadow against the desk below it, a small grey dot the size of the spider’s body moving like a ghost along the wooden surface. Pablo Escobar sits somewhere tonight, smoking a cigarette just like Javier. For every move Javi and the DEA make, Pablo makes five.
He wonders, against his own will, whether Helena has ever been with Pablo. The thought makes his stomach turn, that the room he carves out for himself inside of her body could have ever been occupied by the same man who takes up his every other waking hour. Perhaps that would be apt, poetic somehow, that even in his most vulnerable moments with Helena, Pablo is still there. Still watching. Still ahead.
The blanket falls from her hips. Her hair, still wet from her shower, drips down the soft skin of her back. The warm, tropical breeze through the windows hardly feels cool against Javi’s neck as it catches on the beads of water there. He sweats where her thighs meet his, where her arms rest on his shoulders. Sticky and hot. She rocks into him and he groans, sinking his teeth into the flesh of her bicep. Time does not exist here — only her soft moans and the squeeze of her cunt, only her lust-blown eyes and the drop of her jaw. There is always time for his job — too much, even. There is never enough time for this.
He stands, wipes his hands down his face, and pulls another cigarette from his shirt pocket. He lights it, and the embers crackle in his periphery as he eyes the spider. He sighs, pulls the first file out of the box, and begins to read.
Pablo is everywhere, in every warm breeze charged with impossible mystery and threat of violence. He is everywhere, but so is she.