“Sleepless long nights, that is what my youth is for.”
Late nights become unhurried afternoons, with a view of the rooftops of downtown Madrid from the opened doors of the balcony. Lying on her bed like an old couple on a Sunday morning, we can see the blue of the sky and the pigeons that swoop across. We imagine we’re lying on a beach somewhere and that they’re really seagulls flying by. The whir of approaching cars is really the ocean, the tide coming closer. The warmth of the down blanket is really the warmth of the summer sun.
We talk about Spanish men — Spanish boys. She talks about her frustrations, her desires. We laugh and I am glad that it’s daytime and that we have no obligations whatsoever. It’s a Tuesday, a holiday, and the city is bursting alive five floors below us, but we are lounging like cats in a corner of her tiny but cozy apartment, which is illuminated by the daylight that Spain is so sought out for. It’s December and the balcony doors are wide open, the air comes creeping in as if to clear out all the remnants of night. We’re tired, slightly broken, with aching feet. But the sun is out and we are at peace with ourselves, lying like an old couple with the covers up to our chins.