Clack, clack, clack. The construction, or rather, the destruction of the building across the road from Jorge's apartment, had been going on for months. Clack, clack, clack. Constant clacking as the builders hit the old cement walls with a pickaxe. It was slow and tedious work for the albañiles, construction workers, to tear the old building apart, brick by brick, with such antiquated tools.

The sky was littered with white clouds, moving so quickly that the sun shone through into the city intermittently. As soon as one building became lit by the rays of the sun, breaking through the clouds, another became dark under the shadows. The air was warm, however, and Jorge stood by his living room window, which he had opened to allow the fresh summer air to enter his apartment, looking outside.

Clack, clack, clack. Looking down from the moving clouds, Jorge set his eyes on the youngest of the construction workers. He must have been in his early 20s, his body slim, but muscular from so many hours of working his skill. His skin was dark, part genetics, and part the result of hours of working outdoors under the sun. Jorge had been noticing him working on the site across his apartment for a few weeks now, and the sight of him never failed to create a jump inside his stomach. He looked as the young construction worker raised the pickaxe over his head, bringing it down with full force against the cement below him, time an time again. Clack, clack, clack. Jorge noticed as the construction worker's arms bulged at the bicep every time the pickaxe went upwards. A cloud of dust was created with every hit, covering the boots and legs of the construction worker, as if contradicting the white clouds that slid gracefully through the sky above, covering the sun.

The construction worker slammed is pickaxe powerfully once again, CLACK, releasing more dust. He left the metal pick side of the tool rest on the ground, while he held on to the wooden handle. He looked upwards to the sky, squinting as the sweat slid from his hair and down his face, creating tiny rivers that drew their pathways on his dark skin, as they cleaned the dust that had collected on his face. With his left hand, he took off his yellow safety hat, subsequently wiping the seat off his eyes with his arm. He threw the hat on the floor and leaned down to grab a bottle of water, which he opened and swallowed down in three big gulps. As the cool liquid worked his magic, he looked up at the building across from the worksite, right to the spot, on the fourth floor, where Jorge stood, looking back at him.

Their eyes connected, and for a moment, time stood still for both of them. Jorge's light honey-coloured eyes and the dark brown eyes of the construction worker, united and unable to move from each other, as if a piece of string connected them together. Jorge smiled, his full lips, encased by a neat brown beard, creating an inviting crescent on his face. The construction worker smiled back, his timid lips mimicking Jorge's, on his own dark, slim, hairless face.

The construction worker felt his own stomach jump inside him, a feeling he had never felt before that day. His heartbeat quickened, making him conscious that the blood rushed through his body like electricity, tingling from his head, down through his stomach, and to the place hidden under his pants. A tingling, so strong, that he could barely believe no one was touching his body.

After a few more seconds, Jorge eventually broke his eye contact, rushing away from his window and back to the inside of his apartment, out of the view of the construction worker. With the bolt of electricity still pulsating inside him, and the smile still on his face, the construction worker put his yellow safety hat back on, carried the pickaxe over his head, and started hitting at the ground once again, over and over.

Clack, clack, clack.