Her flight from the other side of the world was long and bumpy and she slept little. She was a traveler, at home anywhere, but this was her first visit to Madrid. In spite of her fatigue she managed to be bright and attentive at a little bar he had chosen for their lunch. After dessert, he guided her through quiet streets to the apartment, kissed her into the sheets, and left her to dream.
He wandered with little thought or direction and found himself at a table in an outdoor café near a Metro station. He drew with pencil and watercolor, ignoring passersby, trying to concentrate on light and trees, art deco ironwork and shadows. The more he tried not to think of her, the more he thought of her.
She stayed through August and September into Autumn. “You know I love your paintings,” she told him, “but more and more I love your messy sketches, like this Metro stop, your uncertainties and mistakes, your trying to figure out how to paint what you’re looking at and how you feel about it. Almost like these months we have been together, yes?”
Weeks of fleeting moments, light hearts and happiness together in the beautiful city she grew to love. Rain and chilly days and long nights came soon enough, as they kissed each other into tears and goodbyes.