Spanish Days

The three women speak to each other in their shared tongue with such certainty. Hands whip around with great intensity, garishly painted pink talons cut the air like knives. Hard, sharp eyebrows frame Spanish eyes. Lips dance from pursed, silent and waiting, ready to fire out lashings of staccato rhythms.

I look around to see if anyone else’s attention has been caught in this web of unfolding drama.

Mother’s fingers tangle up in daughter’s hair, a slender African man slumps over a railing falling asleep with earphones in his ears, smiling children bob up and down with the train whilst they play on their father’s knees.

Nothing out of the ordinary for this subway ride on Barcelona’s underground it seems.

The rising staccato erupts once more diverting my attention back to the three. Accusing eyes sink deeper into the tallest. A quick flick of her head and rivers of chocolate strands swing my way and for an instant our eyes meet. I lower mine attempting to keep my interest concealed, fixing my gaze on a piece of darkened chewing gum.

Feeling the penetrating force of her gaze lift I cautiously enter back into their world. A hand swipes so close to the tall woman’s face with the sort of forcefulness that announces one’s point is final yet the other woman does not move a single muscle. She stands her ground like the very best flamenco dancer and leans forward into the other woman’s face as if they could taste each other’s breath.

Betrayal?

A jilted lover, perhaps?

Before one could decipher the unfolding story the train stops to a halt. The doors open causing a flurry of movement and momentary chaos. As things began to settle once more the scene in front of me is cleansed fresh.

No more are the three but in their place stood an old gypsy woman with brown weathered skin and a shrunken frame.

Rising from my seat I search left, then right.

As the train begins to hurl back into the unknown I catch a glimpse of thick chocolate hair pushed back by a garishly painted pink talon. Then black.

Sighing I sit back down.

‘Oh…those three, eh?’ the gypsy woman who took their space inquires with knowing eyes.

‘Sofia, the tall one, she is always making trouble for herself. You know her loaves should be worth 3 euros yet she is always asking for 4. No sense in her really and her friends are always trying to advise her otherwise.’

As the gypsy woman continues I chuckle to myself.

So that’s the crime. Maybe she’s claiming it’s organic?