I slip back under my cotton sheets, listen to raindrops dance on the roof. The perfect Sunday.
It would be if he was here, but I’m alone with this storm that has stolen the light, stolen my day, blanketed my apartment in melancholy grey. It’s too silent. I switch on my ipod and let Julie Delphy sing,
‘You were for me that night, everything I ever dreamt of in life.’
We met in a debauched bar in Tel Aviv, and built on each others’ jokes like a game of Jenga that never fell. I looked beautiful that night. Or more accurately, covered in his whisky kisses, I felt beautiful. But he was flying home in the morning. So when he joked that I should come to see him in Madrid, I ignored his haha tones and booked a flight. Haha.
A week later, I waited for him by the fountain at Sol square. Promoters wore placards and shouted special deals outside Vodafone and Topshop. A scruffy couple sat next to me, blew hot air on each others’ cold fingers and blasted Rihanna from their phone. I nervously tapped my fingers to the music.
A few minutes later he arrived. Unsure of whether to place my lips on his, I shook his hand, went red and wished I could start all over again.
He took my suitcase, and I strode after him up the street to his charming flat in the old town. We drank tea and talked over each other, until my nerves thawed and our laughter became real.
At four he had class, so I took the chance to see a city I had never been curious about. Wrapped up against the crisp winter air, I wandered quiet streets. Past artisan bakeries, bars and galleries that glowed in the fading light. The low buildings were terracotta, more Provence than Barcelona. I followed the hand-illustrated street signs to Plaza Mayor. A historic square, street performers entertained little princesses in pea coats as they strolled with their parents.
I ended up in the red light district, same same as any other – hard-faced girls, sex shops and takeaways. Just as quickly I was back to riches on Gran Via, a wide avenue of elaborate architecture, where even the McDonalds had marble pillars.
He texted to say he was back at his apartment. I ran through the old streets, back to his room that boasted stone walls a metre thick. But we ignored the warmth and headed for the metro, getting off in a poor neighbourhood of identical apartment blocks. The streets were bleak, the closest thing to life were the neon signs saying Bingo!
Los Amigos, a tiny tapas bar. It was sweaty and loud, as Spanish as a bullfight. Middle-aged waiters shouted for orders over the din of friends who debated, drank and choked on sizzling chunks of Chorizo. Standing room only, we grabbed a space and watched our tapas spill out of a hatch in the corner of the bar. Plates like metal ash trays were filled with squid, sausages and tiny cheese pastries. And the food was delicious because it was so brash, because the atmosphere was so rambunctious after the elegance of the old town by day.
Under the inky sky, we took the metro back to central Madrid. The streets vibrated with madrileños, a glistening image of the good life. We met his friends and floated from bar to bar, chucking down ham and Rioja.
We said our adios, and bought beers from a Chino in the alternative Malasaña district. Frozen to a park bench, our fingers were clamped to the tin when the police showed up. And I felt like I was fourteen again, running from trouble in a tiny Scottish town. Laughing and out of breath, we opened heavy red doors into cafe Manuela, an art nouveau bar filled with smoke and boys and girls in brogues. Tired and dreaming of sleep, we left and took a taxi back to his place.
Beeeeep Beeeeep Beeeeep! It was four am. All too fast, I had to leave that warm body and fly home.
He was gone.
He’s been gone for five months now. Julie has finished her heart-broken tune, and my room feels empty once again.
