No better place to further the shattered remnants of disappointment.
Mental clips of desperate jousts repeated in circular motion until she no longer made sense.
Had she not read chapter seven in his book of regret? She could no longer touch me here.

A pairing of soft rain dampened clouds with grilled seafood, a touch of garlic.
Giddy tourists could not be deterred as nothing could or would disappoint in this magical square.
Larios apropos as Perez was quite the fan although with olives, and I preferred a twist. And a cigarette although I hadn’t indulged since the old man died. I gave her a few euros for one, a light, but made her promise not to give in to any further requests. She made no promises. Obviously had not read chapter two. No worries.

The artists uncovered their works again, calmly folding their plastic beneath the tables. Within moments, the wave returned with fervor and delight, hungry for lifelong memories to share back home. Coughing, and further disgusted with myself, I unimpressively finished my gin in an animated gulp. No one cared.

He was Dutch but had lived here for over twenty years painting and selling his work in the streets, some galleries too. Covid had been good for business online. An apartment in town but a studio in the country with no electricity. He loved to paint within his hermetic existence. A pure life of Zen. Except for occasional treks to Germany to couple with his lover. A welcome break but still reborn and creatively possessed upon return.

Infatuated with his barroom sketches, I bought two. Brought back countless memories from years when each night revealed endless possibilities and adventure. He shared directions to his house of inspiration, a rustic and weathered international tavern.

It was quite a trek but eventually revealed small streets and alleyways unfamiliar to those born of better privilege. Oh, that tortured ugly American courageously and carelessly milling with the local masses, naive to the theatrical dangers as he attributed his bravery or foolishness to an embellished broken heart. Dance with me, Maria. Or please read chapter eight.

The tragic hero comes upon a square and stops to witness the children gleefully shouting unintelligible adolescent verse. And striking intentional oblivion to his presence. The mural strikes a chord of familiarity, however distant his memory. Who now is the Gaucho, amigo? Oh, to dream again.

Beyond a cocktail glass, a loving couple cuddles in their booth, exchanging sweet nothings with the promise of a long, languid night of debauchery and carnal delight. Jealous, but truthfully more envious of his exclusion, and the familiarity of such blessings. Gifts taken for granted. The revelation that he may not know again. Ever.

One more, the gin sublime. A personal promise to read chapter 9. Again. His battered book of regret. And a dance with Maria.