In the center of the room was his bed. It was the second thing Ophelia noticed. Sitting in the middle of the room without a bed frame adorned with fine, beige linen sheets and a duvet.
Ophelia and Jade had a theory about men: the true nature of a man could be seen in how he kept his bed. Was it pushed up to the side of a wall? Was it a king, queen, double, or God forbid, a single? Were the sheets clean or filled with cum stains? And Mateo, well, his entire room was a temple to his art, and at the center, the stage, the altar, a place of performance, of ritual—his bed.
Ophelia felt that weird whiplash-like sensation again. Her feelings about Mateo swung on a pendulum. She couldn’t seem to get a handle on herself around him. Alarms blared in her head, but her body wasn’t listening.She was capable of managing a casual relationship, and it was abundantly clear to her by his studio he was not someone looking for a commitment. She needed to realign. The past three weeks of texting messed with her head, built up her emotions in a way that wasn’t healthy.
Ophelia stood still in the doorframe, assessing the situation. Mateo smirked as if he knew what she was thinking.
“Like it?” he asked as he casually walked to the kitchen and lifted the lid of a Dutch oven, giving its contents a quick stir.
Ophelia snapped out of her trance and entered the studio, letting the door close softly behind her. “It’s beautiful. Is all the work yours?”
“All of the sculptures and some of the paintings and mixed media are mine. The rest is from fellow artists.” Mateo began looking for something in the cabinets, opening and closing various doors.
The steam from the pot reached Ophelia.Well, at least the food smells great.Savory, pork, spices, citrus.
“Do you want a glass of wine?” asked Mateo as he found the bottle of wine he was looking for.
“Sure.” She composed herself and walked closer to a collection of sculptures that lined the sill of the warehouse-style window. The figures were about a foot tall and made from clay. They appeared to be miniature versions of the sculptures she had seen on his website. All, of course, were women, something that hadn’t struck her as odd before, as plenty of artists drew inspiration from the female form. But now she wondered who all these women were.
Mateo carefully poured one glass of wine and walked toward her at the window. “So how was visiting your grandmother?” he asked, handing her the glass. “You said you had a lot to tell me.”
“Oh yeah. I don’t know. It was just really sweet to see her. She’s got quite the personality, so we laughed a lot,” said Ophelia, leaving it at that. She had been excited to tell him about being a Traiteur, but it wasn’t the right time. And she was no longer sure if he was someone that she could trust in that way. Treating was still so new and intensely private to her.
Quickly changing the subject, Ophelia asked, “How was Mexico City? I’ve always wanted to go.”
“It was wonderful. I got to see my brother, who also came totown to visit. We ate a lot of food, he drank, I danced,” he said with a gesture of his hips.
“Oh? Dancing, huh?” Ophelia asked with a smile.
“Mm-hmm. Salsa, some bachata.” Mateo continued motioning through the dancing, pulling a smile from her.
“You’ll have to teach me someday,” she said, taking another sip of wine.
“How about now?” he asked as he wrapped his arm around her waist and grabbed her glass of wine, setting it on the windowsill. His scent slammed into her again. It wasn’t like the scent of something outwardly bad, but it just didn’t sit right with her.
Ophelia went along, learning the basic steps of salsa in his ornate bachelor pad with sculptures of mainly nude women watching. With every spin or step in their direction, she locked eyes with one of them. They were distracting.
Mateo himself was distracting too—his scent, the way he ran his hand languidly from underneath her shoulder down to the small of her back, how he brought her in closer to him every time. The full lengths of their bodies were pressed together, and Ophelia’s breasts swelled against the pressure of her dress pinned against his chest. His pupils were blown from lust, and he tracked every breath she took. Her body was betraying her. Wetness gathered in her sex as he moved her along the wood floor.
Ophelia felt faint. It was him, his touch, his smell. It was all too much and not enough. She had never felt this way before—like her mind was fighting against an intense fog, trying to consume her, to warn her, but her body had left the station. It was wet and swollen in all the right places. So compliant.
He was intoxicating her. The way his skin felt so smooth over strong, muscled arms. How his hand gripped hers, and his other hand now pressed into her hip. Her eyes fluttered closed, and she saw a flash of her tiger behind her eyelids. Just like that, the fog retreated, and her mind came back to her. She stepped away abruptly. A flash of confusion lit across Mateo’s face, but hequickly composed himself. Ophelia plastered on her go-to coy smile to hide her discomfort.
“Sorry, I’m dizzy. I haven’t eaten much today, and your food smells amazing.” She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
Mateo gave her a self-assured grin and strolled to the kitchen. “It’s pozole. My grandmother’s recipe.” He brought down two bowls from a cabinet.
“What’s pozole?”
“A traditional stew with hominy and pork. Honestly, it’s more of a cold-weather dish, but it’s the best dish I make. Takes all day.”
“I mean, it smells incredible,” she said in earnest.
They ate dinner at the kitchen island on barstools. Mateo put a Leonard Cohen album on the record player. He taught Ophelia how to top the pozole with added textures. She layered in avocado, more lime, shredded cabbage. The dish was delicious and rich with an abundance of flavors that burst in her mouth.
They talked between mouthfuls, and Ophelia kept the conversation light and devoid of sexual intensity by asking him questions about the various pieces in his studio.
After dinner, Mateo put on his costume of pleather gold pants and a matching vest that he wore without a shirt.
