THE HIGH TABLE

THE THRESHOLD

He was fifty years old. An age when you think you've come full circle, like closing a logbook. He had lived a fairly straightforward life, without too many twists and turns: twenty-three years of marriage, two children who had grown up without incident, a stable job in a construction company, well-established habits—the same streets, the same schedules, the same silences.

And yet, that morning, on the number 4 train heading towards Strasbourg–Saint-Denis, something had shifted inside him. A slight shift, almost imperceptible, like a memory that comes back without being called upon.

He was sitting between a teenager absorbed in his phone and a woman wearing pink headphones. Their presence brushed against him without touching him. He watched the faces go by, the stations pass, and wondered what he was doing there, on the subway, at that hour, with this fixed idea spinning in his head like a forgotten refrain.

A gay sauna.

The word had a strange, almost unreal resonance. He only knew vague images of it, the ones you see in movies or hear about in hushed conversations. Steam, glances, bodies. And yet, over the past few months, a curiosity had crept into him. At first timid, like a shadow in the corner of a room. Then more insistent. An exchange of glances with a colleague that lasted too long. A scene in a movie, seemingly mundane, but which had left him troubled. And that sweet, almost tender feeling of a desire he had never been able to name.

He asked himself questions, like leafing through an old notebook without knowing what he was looking for.

— Can you change at fifty? — Or are you just revealing yourself? — What if it's just a passing crisis? What would others say? His wife, his children? Was he about to cross an invisible line, with no turning back?

He felt both ridiculous and strangely alive. Like a teenager about to do something forbidden, without knowing why. The subway stopped at Réaumur–Sébastopol. Two more stops. His heart was beating too fast, as if he had been running without moving.

He thought about turning back. Going home. Opening a beer. Picking up the thread of his life as if nothing had changed.

But he remained seated.

And when the doors opened at Strasbourg–Saint-Denis, he stood up. Not out of bravery. Not out of certainty. But because he was tired of lying to himself. And because sometimes you have to follow the shadows that call to you, even if you don't know where they lead.

He stood there, in front of the door, motionless. The noise of the city seemed to fade away, as if muffled behind glass. He could still hear the horns, the hurried footsteps, the voices rising from the street, but none of it concerned him anymore. He was somewhere else. In between. On the threshold.

He placed his hand on the intercom, without pressing it. He read the letters engraved on the plaque, as one reads an address on an old postcard. He wondered how many men before him had hesitated here. How many had waited, their hearts pounding, before stepping through that door.

He thought of his father, his silences, that masculine modesty that had been passed down to him without words. He thought of his years of marriage, the repeated gestures, the well-ordered habits. And that feeling he had had for some time now, of having lived alongside himself.

He pressed the button.

A click. A door opened. He entered.

The hallway was narrow, dimly lit. It smelled of chlorine, damp wood, bodies. He walked slowly, as if in a dream. He passed a man coming out, his hair wet, a towel around his hips. They exchanged a brief, unassuming glance. But that glance troubled him. There was something simple, calm, almost gentle about it.

He paid the entrance fee, took his key, his locker. He undressed without haste. He folded his clothes carefully, as if he wanted to retain a little control. He looked at himself in the mirror. His body seemed foreign to him. Not ugly. Just unfamiliar.

He tied the towel around his waist. And he went in.

The heat enveloped him immediately. Steam, murmurs, shadows. He walked through the corridors, passing silhouettes, glances. He didn't yet know what he was looking for. But he knew he didn't want to run away anymore.

And in that dim light, amid the bodies and the silence, he felt alive for the first time in a long time.

He could feel his heart beating, not in his throat, but everywhere—in his temples, his wrists, even in the hollow of his knees. He stood there, motionless, in front of the intercom, as if frozen in a photograph. He thought he could still turn back. Take the subway again. Go back to being that discreet man, the one who goes through life without leaving a trace.

But he knew that something had changed. Something tiny, almost imperceptible, but irreversible. A voice inside him—one he had never heard before—whispered that he had to go in. Not to look for anything, but simply to be there. To let himself be swept away.

He raised his hand. It trembled slightly, like that of a teenager standing in front of an unfamiliar door.

He pressed the button.

And then nothing. Just silence, a slight buzzing in my ear, and waiting. As if the world were holding its breath.

The door opened silently. He entered a small hall with subdued lighting, the walls a nondescript shade—taupe, perhaps, or warm gray. The air was saturated with a strange smell: something clean, chlorinated, mixed with a musky scent that reminded him of old locker rooms, municipal swimming pools, winter afternoons when he waited for someone to come and pick him up.

He approached the counter. Behind it, a young man with a neatly trimmed beard gave him a neutral, almost absent smile. He looked like someone who had seen hundreds of faces pass by without ever really remembering them.

“First time?” he asked, without insistence.

He nodded, a little too quickly. That gesture, too, seemed to come from someone else.

“Twenty-eight euros for admission. Towel included.”

Twenty-eight euros. He blinked. The figure surprised him. Not so much because of its size as because of what it represented. He thought about his habits—coffee alone, subway tickets, shopping at Franprix, always the same products, always the same gestures. And now he was going to spend twenty-eight euros on... he didn't know what. To enter a place without any reference points. To let go of something, perhaps. Or simply to be there, in that suspended moment, without knowing what would follow.

He stood still for a moment. Then, almost mechanically, he took out his credit card. He handed it over without a word. The terminal emitted a discreet beep, like a signal that only he seemed to hear.

And that's when something happened. Nothing spectacular. Just a tiny shift. This mundane gesture—paying, validating, entering—took on a whole new dimension. He had just crossed a threshold. Not that of the place, but that of himself.

He was no longer quite the same person who stood on the sidewalk, observing without acting, imagining without getting involved. He was becoming someone else. A man who, for once, was not backing down. A man who was willing to lose himself a little, perhaps to find himself in a different way.

He put away his card. The young man handed him a folded towel and a small plastic bracelet. Nothing more. And yet he felt as if he had just been given the keys to an unknown territory.

The excitement did not stem from any specific desire. It was something else. A gentle, almost imperceptible tension, like when you are about to enter a place whose rules you do not know. He felt both younger and older. Like a teenager stepping through a forbidden door. Like a man who, after years of wandering, finally decides to face himself.

He took the towel the young man handed him. It was white, a little rough. This simple object seemed to him to be charged with a meaning he couldn't put into words. He entered the locker room. The light was harsher there, the walls covered with pale tiles. He began to tremble slightly. It wasn't fear. Rather, it was a kind of anticipation, a feeling of vertigo.

He wondered what he was going to discover. What he was going to feel. Whether he would talk to someone or simply exchange glances. Whether he would be seen—really seen—or whether he would remain invisible, as always.

But above all, he wondered if, in this place without landmarks, in this damp silence, he would finally recognize himself. Not as he had learned to show himself, but as he had always been, deep down.

The locker room was quiet, almost surreal. A silence punctuated only by the rustling of towels, the discreet clinking of lockers being closed, muffled footsteps on the sand-colored tiles. The walls, the light wood benches, the metal lockers—everything seemed arranged with a precision that reminded him of certain places from his childhood, boarding schools, sports clubs where he had never felt at home.

He held his towel close to him, like a fragile shield. Around him, men were changing without haste or embarrassment. Some were already naked, others were tying their towels around their waists. He watched them out of the corner of his eye, with a curiosity he couldn't hide, even though he tried to stay in the background.

He had always been modest. He had never felt comfortable in locker rooms—neither at school nor at the municipal swimming pool where he sometimes went with his father on winter Sundays. He remembered the smell of chlorine, the loud shouts, the bodies he avoided looking at.

And now, in this place where a glance could be more than just a glance, he felt vulnerable. As if undressing meant not only taking off his clothes, but also letting go of years of silence, learned roles, and automatic gestures. He felt as if people could see him as he really was—or as he had never dared to be.

He opened his locker. The sound of metal echoed faintly in the silence of the locker room. He took off his shirt slowly, as if afraid of rushing anything. His chest, marked by the years, retained a certain solidity. He felt the warm air on his skin, and a slight shiver ran through him—not from the cold, but from exposure.

He hesitated in front of his jeans. This gesture seemed more decisive to him. He felt that if he took them off, all eyes would be on him. But in reality, no one was looking at him. Everyone was absorbed in their own rhythm, their own movements. He knew this, but couldn't quite convince himself.

And yet, something was rising within him. It wasn't desire. Rather, it was a kind of inner impulse, like when you cross an invisible line. He was going to be naked among other men. He was going to show himself as he was, without a costume, without a role. He wondered what it would do to him. Whether he would feel free. Whether he would be seen. Whether he would dare to look.

He took off his jeans. He wrapped the towel around his waist. The gesture was clumsy, almost childish. He tied the corner, stood up straight, and took a slow breath, as if to anchor himself in the moment.

Then he took a step toward the door.

He pushed it open, his heart still pounding, and entered another room—adjacent to the sauna, but different. The atmosphere was more raw. Dumbbells, machines, mirrors. And bodies. Men in towels or shorts, focused on their movements, their muscles tense, their faces closed.

He paused for a moment. He wasn't there for that. But he watched. There was a kind of loneliness in their movements, a way of building armor around themselves. He wondered if he, too, had worn that kind of armor—invisible, but heavy.

And then he looked away. He wasn't ready to look for too long yet.

He observed them without insistence. None of them really attracted him. Too young, too sculpted, too sure of themselves. They belonged to another world, a world of certainties and controlled gestures. But it wasn't desire that guided him at that moment. It was something else. A kind of discreet, almost childlike pride. He was there too. He was part of the scenery. He could be seen.

He approaches a weight bench, without knowing why. He sits down, adjusts his towel, looks at his reflection in the mirror. His body seems both familiar and unfamiliar to him. He has never really looked at it like this before—without judgment, without expectation. He sees the marks of time, the muscles still there, the discreet scars he had forgotten. And he finds himself thinking that he's not so bad. Not like the others, but not invisible either.

A man walks behind him, brushing him lightly. He feels the warmth of his skin, the smell of clean sweat, almost reassuring. He doesn't turn around. But his body reacts. A shiver, a slight tingling in his lower abdomen. It's not the contact that moves him. It's the fact of being there. Available. Open. Present.

He gets up. Takes a few steps. Stops in front of a machine he doesn't know how to use. He doesn't feel like working out. That's not why he came. He came to exist. To be there, in this place where eyes glide over him, sometimes lingering. To be seen. Maybe even desired. But without urgency. Without expectation.

Just to feel that it's still possible.

A glance meets his. Fleeting. Indecisive. But enough to spark something, something almost imperceptible, like a memory he can't quite place. He doesn't know whether to smile, approach, say something. So he stands there, in his bathrobe, his heart pounding, his thoughts in disarray, like a man waiting on a platform without knowing which train he is hoping for.

And for the first time in a long time, he is not trying to escape what he is feeling. He accepts this confusion, this hesitation, this gentle tension that runs through him.

He leaves the gym without rushing. The tiled corridor leading to the showers is darker, quieter. The air is heavy with steam, humidity, and that smell of soap and heat that reminds him of certain winter afternoons in anonymous hotels, where he had taken refuge without really knowing why.

He pushes open the door. Enters. No one there.

He lays his towel on the bench and slowly undresses, as if he wants to give each movement a sense of gravity. The feel of the warm air on his bare skin surprises him. He shivers slightly. It's not the cold. It's something else. A vague emotion, difficult to name. A form of self-awareness.

Under the jets of water, he closes his eyes. The water flows over his body, washing away tension and thoughts. He feels good. Not euphoric. Just there. In the moment. Alive.

He knows he is alone. But part of him hopes. Not for a spectacular encounter. Not for an upheaval. Just a fleeting exchange. A glance. A recognition. Someone who would see him—really see him—and who, for a moment, would share this suspended silence.

He opens his eyes again. The blue light from the LEDs reflects off the tiled walls, creating shifting, almost liquid shapes, like memories that won't stay in place. Still no one. And yet he doesn't feel empty. He feels like he's waiting, like those late afternoons when you know something could happen, but you don't know what.

He remains there, motionless, listening to the dull sound of bubbles, breathing slowly. The silence is filled with thoughts, fragments, glimpses of faces. He doesn't try to hold on to them. He lets them pass, like passers-by on an unfamiliar street.

Then he sits up slightly, leaning against the edge. He doesn't yet know whether he will go home or prolong this interlude. He has no appointments, no obligations. Just this strange, almost disturbing freedom of having nothing to do.

But he knows he has crossed something. An invisible threshold. That of acceptance. Of himself, of the moment, of this solitude that no longer weighs on him.

He pushes open the glass door leading to the bathrooms. The hallway is darker here, the dim lights casting halos on the floor. He moves slowly, as if afraid of disturbing the fragile balance of the place. The jacuzzi is there, built into a tiled recess, like a well-kept secret.

The water bubbles gently. The blue LEDs dance on the surface, and he thinks of those hotel pools he once saw in brochures, where everything seemed destined to be forgotten.

He approaches, removes his towel, and slowly enters the warm water. The contact is immediate, enveloping. His body relaxes, his muscles loosen. He sits on the inner edge, lets the water rise to his chest, closes his eyes for a moment.

He is alone. And that's almost better that way. He no longer expects anything. Or rather, he waits without impatience. Something. Someone. A gesture. A glance. Or simply the passing of time, in this place where everything seems suspended.

Men pass by. Enter the room. Take a look. Leave. Some stop briefly, as if hesitating, then disappear. Others don't even see him. He watches them without insistence, as one watches silhouettes passing behind a fogged-up window.

None of them really appeal to him. Too young. Too sure of themselves. Too far from what he's looking for—if he even knows what he's looking for. He has no specific criteria, just a vague expectation, a form of silent recognition.

But he doesn't feel disappointed. He is here, in a place he would never have dared to imagine a few months earlier. Naked, in the water, in the middle of a world he is discovering. And this simple presence is enough for him. He doesn't need anything else. Not for now.

He watches the bubbles bursting on the surface. He listens to the dull sound of the engine. He feels his heart beating more slowly. He doesn't know how long he'll stay. He doesn't know if he'll come back. But he knows he's experiencing something. An opening. A transition. Like when you leave a city without knowing if you'll ever return.

And in this calm, he finds himself smiling. A discreet, almost involuntary smile. Like a release.

He gets out of the jacuzzi. Water drips from his skin. He grabs his towel from the edge, wraps it around his hips, adjusts the knot. Then he heads for the stairs leading to the upper floor. He has been told what he will find there. He doesn't yet know if he will go all the way. But he wants to see. To understand. Feel.

The steps are narrow, covered with a dark carpet. The lighting is subdued, almost theatrical. He thinks of those staircases in Parisian buildings, the ones he used to climb for uncertain appointments, in apartments where people spoke in hushed tones.

Halfway there, his towel slips slightly. Loosens. He stops. Calmly ties it back. Without rushing. He feels his heart beating faster. Not out of fear. But out of a new tension. An intense curiosity. As if he were approaching something. A threshold. A turning point.

Arriving on the landing, he discovers a narrow corridor lined with cabins with half-open doors. The atmosphere is hushed, almost silent, punctuated by whispers and discreet movements. A soft light filters under the thresholds, like half-erased promises.

He moves forward slowly, his bare feet on the warm floor. He observes without lingering, as one might leaf through an album of unfamiliar faces. Some cabins are empty, dark, open to the unknown. Others house a man, lying down or standing, his gaze open, his body relaxed, waiting silently. He quickly understands the codes: here, one does not speak. One looks. One chooses. Or not.

In the hallway, men wait. Some lean against the wall, others walk slowly, their eyes alert. They scrutinize, evaluate, hope. He passes them, sometimes exchanging a glance. But none of them really appeal to him. Too insistent. Too hurried. Too far from what he imagines. He doesn't know exactly what he's looking for. Perhaps a form of gentleness. Silent recognition. A respite.

He continues his tour, without rushing. He doesn't want to rush this moment. He doesn't know yet if he's going to go into a booth. First, he wants to understand what he's feeling. What he's looking for. What he's ready to experience.

He thinks of other places, other corridors. Provincial hotels, high-rise apartments, waiting rooms where he had waited for someone without knowing if they would come. There is the same atmosphere in this corridor: a nameless waiting, a hushed tension, a fragile promise.

He stops in front of an empty booth. The door is ajar. Inside, there is a bench, a soft light, a mirror. Nothing extraordinary. But something draws him in. He stands there, motionless, a few inches from the threshold. He listens to his heart. It is not beating faster. It is beating differently.

And in this silence, he understands that it is not desire that guides him. It is something else. A desire to be seen. To be recognized. Even briefly.

And in this silent corridor, bathed in a dim light, he feels both foreign and strangely at home. As if he had always known that this place existed, without ever daring to name it. He thinks of those streets he used to walk through, aimlessly, with that same feeling of being on the margins and yet at the center of something.

He tells himself that maybe he will fulfill this fantasy that he never dared to name. But he has taken a step forward. He has moved from idea to experience. And that changes everything. He is no longer a spectator. He is there, in the setting, in the movement.

He opens his eyes. Looks around him. Still no one. But he is no longer waiting. He is in the moment. And for the first time in a long time, he feels at peace. A strange peace, almost fragile, like the peace you feel after a long walk, when your body calms down and your mind goes quiet.

At first, he doesn't understand everything. The glances are furtive, the gestures minimal. No one speaks, no one touches without invitation. But very quickly, he grasps the codes. It is a silent language, precise, almost choreographed. A grammar of the body, a syntax of the gaze.

A man stares at him, his eyes fixed on his. He holds the gaze, just long enough. The other man smiles slightly, a slight movement of the body. He turns his head away. No. Not him. And the man understands, walking away without insisting. No awkwardness. No tension. Just a shift.

That's the game. You look at me, I look at you. If it lasts, it's an opening. If you lower your eyes, if you turn your head, it's a refusal. No drama, no embarrassment. Just a ballet of glances, a subtle mechanics of desire. He thinks of those scenes from silent films, where everything is played out in a gesture, a tilt of the head, a pause.

He finds himself loving this precision. This respect. This slowness. Nothing is forced. Everything is possible, but nothing is imposed. And in this new freedom, he discovers himself to be more present, more attentive. To himself. To others. To this place that, unbeknownst to him, was waiting for him.

He gets caught up in the game. He walks slowly down the hallway, passing faces, catching glances. He tests. He supports, he dodges, he learns. He discovers that he can please. That some follow him with their eyes, waiting for a sign. He plays with that. Not out of vanity. Out of curiosity. Out of a desire to understand what his body says, what his eyes provoke. As if he were discovering a language he had always known how to speak without ever having learned it.

He stops in front of a booth. Inside, a man is sitting naked, his legs slightly apart. He looks at him, without insistence. He holds his gaze. The man tilts his head, as if inviting him in. He hesitates. Then looks away. Not yet. He's not afraid. He's just waiting for the right moment.

But he senses that something has changed. He is no longer a spectator. He has become a player. He is part of the scenery, the rhythm, the ballet. He is no longer standing back. He is fully present.

He continues to wander down the corridor, his steps slow, his breathing quiet. He begins to feel at ease in this silent theater, to understand the rules, to play with the glances. He thinks of those children's games in the schoolyard, where everything was said without words. He rediscovers that gentle tension, that contained excitement.

And then, suddenly, he sees him.

The man is standing, leaning against a partition, right next to a half-open booth. He is a little older. He has a lean, unostentatious muscular build, a strong jaw, and dark eyes. He doesn't move. He waits. But not like the others. He doesn't seek. He offers.

There is something calm and confident about his immobility. No provocation. No game. Just a presence. An availability. A form of silent certainty.

Their eyes meet. There is no rush. No pressure. He feels a warmth rising within him, gentle, tranquil. He does not yet know if he will approach. But he knows that this gaze has touched him in a different way. Not like the others. Like recognition. Like a possibility.

He remains there, a few steps away. The silence around them seems to thicken. The hallway fades away. There is only this man, this half-open cabin, and this tension suspended between them.

And in this fragile moment, he realizes he is ready. Not for everything. But for something.

Their eyes meet. And then, everything wobbles.

He feels a heat rising within him, sudden and unexpected. It is not just desire. It is deeper than that. A kind of vertigo. As if that look had just stripped him bare, pierced him through. As if, in a second, someone had seen what he had always hidden—without judging him, without naming it.

He wants to hold his gaze. He wants to respond. But he can't. His heart races. He lowers his eyes. A second too soon. He knows it. He has fled.

Fear overwhelms him. Not the fear of being seen. The fear of being touched where he no longer has control. That look has awakened something he hadn't anticipated. A flaw. A desire. A truth. He doesn't know if it's a memory or a promise. But it's there, alive, burning.

He pretends to look away, but he can still feel that gaze on him. He wants to go back, to cross paths with him again, to dare. But his body won't follow. He is frozen, tense, unable to take a step. Like those moments when you know that everything could change, but you choose silence, for fear of what he might say.

So he walks away, breathless, the towel damp against his skin. He walks without seeing, crossing the hallway as one crosses a fading dream. He doesn't know if he fled from the man or from what he awakened in him.

But he knows he will return.

Not to find that look again. Perhaps he will never see it again. But to find that feeling again. That vertigo. That flaw. That moment when, for a split second, he felt seen. Recognized. Exposed. And alive.

He walks down the hallway again, more slowly this time. The faces have changed. Some have left, others have appeared. But he is looking for him. Without admitting it. He pretends to look at the cabins, the bodies, the gazes. He feigns indifference, exploration. But in truth, he hopes to meet again the one he fled from.

With each step, regret overtakes him a little more. That look, that presence, that tension—he still feels them in his chest, like a gentle burn. A heat that won't go away, that lingers, like a memory that's too vivid. He tells himself that maybe he missed something. Not just a body. A moment. A possibility.

He thinks back to the way the man looked at him: calm, confident, without insistence. He didn't impose anything. He was just there. Present. Open. And he fled. Out of fear. Out of surprise. Out of unfamiliarity. But now he thinks that maybe it was a potential opportunity. Not just sexual. Something rarer: a genuine exchange, a shared thrill. Recognition.

He turns again, his eyes alert. He scans the corners, the stalls, the shadows. Nothing. The man is gone. And the regret grows heavier. He feels foolish. He tells himself he should have dared. Just held his gaze. Just a little longer. One more second. One second that would have changed everything.

He stops, leaning against a wall. The tiles are warm against his back. He closes his eyes. He breathes. Slowly. He tells himself he will learn. That he will come back. That he will dare. He no longer wants to run away. He no longer wants to let it pass.

But for now, he stays there, alone, with that strange taste in his mouth: the taste of missed desire. That taste we all know, but can never name. A mixture of sweet shame, melancholy, and hope.

And in that silence, he understands that it's not the man he's looking for. It's himself.

He can't take it anymore. Regret has turned into urgency. He stands up abruptly, leaves the wall he was leaning against, and retraces his steps. The hallway isn't long—twenty meters at most—but each step feels heavy, each second stretches out like an eternity.

He scans the corners, the cubicles, the silhouettes. He walks faster, his heart pounding, his hands clammy. He no longer looks at the others. He is no longer playing. He is searching. For him.

He tells himself he is ready. That he wants this. That he won't run away this time. He doesn't know what he's going to say—nothing, probably—but he knows what he's going to do. He's going to hold his gaze. He's going to go in. He's going to let himself be taken, or take the initiative. He doesn't know yet. But he's ready. He feels this certainty rising within him, like a gentle but irrepressible wave.

He reaches the end of the corridor. Nothing. He retraces his steps. Still nothing. He begins to believe that he's gone. That the moment has passed. That the desire will remain suspended, unfulfilled. Like those letters that were never sent, those missed appointments that we dwell on endlessly.

And then, around the corner of a booth, he sees him.

He stops. He doesn't know what to do. He doesn't know whether to wait, approach, or look away. He feels his heart slow down, as if his breath had been taken away. He's not jealous. It's not that. It's something else. A kind of gentle disillusionment. Like when you arrive too late and realize the train has already left.

He stays there, a few meters away. He watches. He doesn't want to interrupt. He doesn't want to impose himself. He just wants to understand what he's feeling. What he should do.

And in this uncertainty, he tells himself that maybe tonight isn't the night. That it's not him. That it's not the right time yet.

But he knows he has changed. That he has moved from waiting to acting. That he dared to come back. And that this, already, is a victory.

The man is there, standing this time, at the end of the corridor. But something is wrong. He is not alone.

At his side is another man. Younger. Looking at him. Too close. Too familiar. He speaks in a low voice, one hand on his shoulder. And the man he was looking for doesn't move. He listens. He doesn't look away. He's there, but somewhere else.

Next to him is another man—younger, with a lithe body, his gaze already locked on his. They exchange a few words in low voices, almost conspiratorially. Nothing spectacular. Just a closeness. An obviousness. The man he was looking for tilts his head slightly, as if to say yes. And they begin to walk, side by side, toward a booth.

He stops dead in his tracks.

His heart sinks. He stands frozen, unable to move forward. He watches the scene unfold as if in slow motion. Like a memory he never experienced, but recognizes. The man he desired, the man he hoped for, walks away. With someone else. Faster. More confident. Younger.

He feels foolish. Too slow. Too hesitant. He had finally made up his mind. He was ready. But the moment slipped through his fingers. Like those opportunities we let slip away, convinced they will come back. And never do.

He stands there, alone in the hallway, surrounded by bodies he no longer sees. The silence is the same, but everything has changed. He doesn't know whether to leave or wait. He doesn't know if he'll get another chance. He doesn't even know what he's hoping for anymore.

But he knows one thing: desire doesn't warn you. It strikes, it burns, and sometimes it escapes. Like a light you think you can follow, but which goes out just before you reach it.

Disappointed, he resumes his wandering. The corridor seems colder now, emptier, despite the bodies passing through it. He is no longer really searching. He floats. He lets his feet guide him, without any particular goal, just so he doesn't remain still. Like walking through an unfamiliar city after missing an appointment.

He goes back upstairs, where the atmosphere is denser, more direct. The booths are still there, some half-open, others closed. He no longer really looks. He moves forward. He breathes. He waits for something to touch him again.

And then, around a corner, he comes across a scene.

A man is on his knees, focused, absorbed, his mouth around a stiff penis. The other man is standing, his hands against the wall, his eyes half-closed. Nothing is hidden. Nothing is acted. It is raw, real, silent. Like a scene stolen from the night, without staging, without scenery.

He stops. He watches. He feels his body react, his breathing quicken. He wants it. Really. But it's not a simple desire. It's a projection. An inner image. He imagines kneeling down next to the bent man, sharing this moment, this offering. Or perhaps standing behind the man, touching him, kissing him, uniting with him. He doesn't know. Everything is blurred. Everything is possible.

The images rush through his mind. The desire is there, strong, burning, almost painful. He feels his stomach knot, his skin shiver. He is ready. He believes. But he does not move.

He stays there, a few meters away, frozen. He doesn't dare. He doesn't know how to enter this scene without disrupting it. He is afraid of being awkward, of disturbing, of not being up to the task. Like when you hesitate to join a conversation that has already started, for fear of upsetting the balance.

So he watches. He desires. And he remains silent.

The moment passes. The two men change position, move away, disappear into a cabin. And he remains there, alone, his body on fire, his gestures restrained. Like a spectator who wanted to play, but remained in the shadows.

He doesn't feel frustrated. Not really. Just suspended. As if this desire, too intense, too sudden, still needed to mature. He knows he'll come back. That he'll dare. But not now. Not here.

He turns slowly, resumes his walk. The corridor seems quieter to him. He no longer looks at the cabins. He looks inside himself.

And in this silence, he understands that desire is not always a call to action. Sometimes, it's just a light. A gentle burning. A promise.

He tells himself that this is why he came. That he wants it. That he will dare.

But not now.

He goes back down the stairs, his heart in turmoil, his legs heavy. Each step takes him back to the locker room, to the exit, to the ordinary world. But inside him, nothing has returned to normal. His body is still tense, his mind saturated with images, gestures he did not make, glances he did not return. He moves forward as one leaves a stage too soon, without knowing if the curtain has fallen.

He pushes open the locker room door. The place is quiet, almost deserted. A pale light filters down from the ceiling, like in hotel corridors where you return alone after a night that was too full. He finds his locker and opens it without thinking. His movements are mechanical, as if he wants to get rid of himself. He takes out his towel and throws it away carelessly. He puts on his T-shirt and jeans without even drying himself. Everything sticks, everything itches, but he feels nothing. He is elsewhere.

And then, as he closes his locker, he looks up.

The sucker.

He enters the locker room, shirtless, relaxed, almost nonchalant. He approaches the sink, turns on the tap, leans over, rinses his mouth. Slowly. Like a ritual. Like a provocation. Or maybe none of that. Just a gesture. But for him, it's a slap in the face. A scene that plays out again, but without him. A door closes.

He stares at him, frozen, unable to look away. The other man doesn't see him. Or pretends not to. It doesn't matter. The silence is thick. The sound of water against porcelain seems too loud, too clear. He feels his stomach knot, his throat tighten. The regret becomes more vivid, more cruel. He could have. He would have liked to. But he didn't dare.

The sucker straightens up, wipes his mouth, runs a hand through his hair. Then he leaves, without a glance.

And he remains there, alone, dressed too quickly, too badly, with that bitter taste in his mouth—the taste of stifled desire, of a missed moment, of a longing that failed to become action. He thinks of those moments that we keep inside us, like blurry photos, that we show to no one.

He takes his things. He leaves.

But inside him, everything continues to burn. Not like pain. Like a trace. An imprint. Something that cannot be erased.

THE END

Published: 2025-08-11, viewed 110 times.