My ravishing yet a wistful story about meeting the love of my life in Lisbon.

I heard delicate tidbits growing louder outside of Tejo bar. The sounds came behind the big black metal door, that resembled one of a prison. I knocked. There was some murmuring inside, the music faded. A noisy clatter came loose, as the key was turned from the inside and the door was opened.
A cross-eyed face emerged on the door. One of his eyes was looking at me, the other was looking at a street light.
The pirate-looking man took a moment to think and then nodded approvingly and let me in, locking the cell behind us. Maybe it was just the amphora of wine on my table that made the particular moment special.

In the left corner, a dulled "fado" guitar without strings was gathering dust and above it, a bookshelf, with more dust than to cover the Alps. A guy on a synthesizer, one on a tambourine and two guys on the guitars. These guys knew what they were doing. The notes of their instruments still echo in my ears, filled with "bossa-nova" and "fado" music with the soothing harmony of a dark-skinned Brazilian singer.
As I turned my head back towards the entrance, I saw Her. In a long, snow-white dress, curly dark hair spilling over her shoulders. Her hazel eyes were shadowed by her eyebrows like the Arcs of Triumph and blood-red lips reflected by the white smile that lay beneath.

Never in my life I had seen such beauty. As I was glancing her, she turned her head and caught my eyes, as of knowing that I was watching her. My heart stopped. She just gave a foxy smile and continued her perfect flamenco moves. The exact thing happened many times during the whole night.
As the sun started rising, I felt the urge to talk to her, but as a stereotypical young man from the North, I couldn't find my courage. I stood up to leave. I saw Her also take notice of my sudden departure. As I opened the door, I felt a touch on my biceps. It was Her. I felt the libido in the air. Instead of the typical way for the Portuguese to say hello-goodbye, which is a kiss on each cheek, she pressed her wet, blood-red lips hard against both of my cheeks and whispered: "Maria."

Staying there would have looked ill-timed. But I didn't want to leave. As our hands slipped away from each others, I stepped over the door-sill to the cobble-stoned streets of Lisbon and saw the cell door behind us close again. Every step I took, the music and the murmuring faded more and more until it became nothing but the pulsating shimmers of streetlights in a warm, ocean-breezy Lisbon. Oh, Maria...