0 comments/ 7098 views/ 0 favorites Spanish Developments By: RetMarut Kathy Peck and Nancy Kirkwood were returning to America. The two women exchanged ambiguous farewells with Paul Lowery on the train into Barcelona from the beach. Halting as their public separation had been, Nancy's earlier private leave-taking had been absolutely clear. Nurse-minding Kathy for the week, Nancy had spent little time alone with him. Through recompense sex she erased absence and distance. The last morning, likely while Kathy showered, Nancy tapped on his hotel door. Bound in nothing other than a large fluffy white bath towel which further darkened her complexion, she stole into his room. The door closing and her towel falling happened simultaneously. Nancy's lean nakedness stretched his boxers. A condition she quickly eased by yanking them around his ankles. On her rise Nancy gave his tool a sloppy tongue swipe. With so much sleight of fabric, Lowery missed the foil package in her fingers. Deftly opened, latex adroitly affixed, she pulled him to the nearest wall. There, wet and eager, copper eyes burning, Nancy flattened while he angled then rammed up. The impromptu nature, its time constraint, cleared his mind. One shaky leg steadied her, the other corded around his thigh. Lowery pinned her between his forearms. Nancy's arms seized him from shoulders to waist. Lowery pumped and grunted. She panted after his every heavenward jolt. When he came she trembled enough to shake him. The two women de-boarded at El Prat, a station whose trunk spurred into the airport. Lowery continued straight towards the Catalonian hub. Their Costa Garraf week had clarified the major dilemma: though under duress, Kathy, a pro golfer, would "out" herself. Forthright admission ought prevent further drama. As other celebrity disclosures had amply proven, evasions, half-truths, prolonged indignation simply fed the monster and worsened the eventual revelation. Quick confirmation ended speculation whose burden tarnished the newsmaker. That decided, they made a small sour game of sponsors who might drop her immediately against those who'd gauge the resulting winds. The least they could've done for a shining image of All-American womanhood. Hetero as could be, the idea of someone having to publicly declare her or his orientation disgusted Lowery. He hoped Kathy presented herself in a manner that dissuaded the more ravenous media from demanding greater cringe-inducing answers. Kathy and Nancy left Spain at an opportune time. A inversion blew through. One that not only purified the air, but also dropped temperatures. While he welcomed the brisk weather, the Spaniards behaved as if it portended a second Ice Age. Shawls he understood -- but scarves and coats!? In August!? On the Mediterranean!? Either Lowery had been so preoccupied or victimized by lousy signage because he wound up at the wrong terminal. The terminus for France-bound or -arriving trains. Off the carriage he stepped onto a dogshit spackled platform. Lowery stayed just long enough to appreciate the soaring structure's roof, direct himself properly, then board the right train. He was extra vigilant during his retrace. This train creaked through stations whose names were obscured by darkness, cluttered or poorly placed signs. Nor did it help announcements were mumbled in Catalan. Only a hunch let him off at his transfer. Unlike the commuter line, the metro was well-lighted and clearly marked. A short time later Lowery stood outside the Fontana stop. Narrow streets lent mid-range buildings a "canyon effect." Before walking several blocks to his hotel he scoured the neighborhood. Late afternoon around the metro entrance certainly was lively. Youth predominated. Wiry vulpine boys wearing the latest slacker fashions hung in hungry clots while their bold-eyed, pliant-lipped female contemporaries filled benches or heated up the general vicinity by slowly ambling up and down the same pavement in trios and quartets. The girls were remarkably similar. Each edgy face had chestnut or inky hair piled atop it. Proud, unspoiled breasts heaved beneath cardigans or jackets. Low-rise denims squeezed nicely flaring hips. Legs ended in ornate leather lethal-toed arching heels. A few abuelitas rounded out the assembly, looking just as out of place as himself. Beyond the metro itself a highly-selective bookstore, a tabac, pizza parlor and bars formed the secondary main congregating points. Rooted as he wished to have remained, Lowery pushed off. His hotel shouldered inconspicuously on the Via Augusta. Its exterior began as at Art Nouveau but settled into Modernisme. In the compact gilded lobby florid Britons exited leaving two swarthy desk clerks behind the reception desk. Cleaned up as they were, the pair reminded Lowery of field hands recently stuffed into new blue blazers. He spoke to the crabbier of them in Castilian. Seeing Lowery's passport the man replied in clipped business English. Basic information gleaned, Lowery rode to his ninth-floor room. The elevator opened onto a pristine floor. Half of it at least. The other half underwent renovation. Despite thick plastic partitions resins, sawdust and paint tinged nostrils. His windows looked north into apartments. If he hoped spying some young thing walking around in her sweet altogether, Lowery would be luckless. Those windows only revealed thoroughly domesticated couples or retirees leading numbing routines. Lowery grabbed his camera then hit the bricks. The metro funneled him downtown. After deciphering and navigating the below ground tangle, Lowery climbed to street level Placa Catalunya. Topside proved a bigger louder version of Fontana. Except with fountains, gardens and statuary added. Early evening now, Lowery intended snapping several pictures while he still had decent natural light. Not for himself or memory. For his female colleagues in Colorado. They were suckers for this stuff. Once done he'd tour La Rambla, the city's main promenade, to the harbor. Along the way he'd have some cold ones while determining which of its "world renown attractions" were worth his tourist's attentions. Lowery saved that stroll for another day. During his photographic obligation of a lavender flower bed perfectly offset by an oversized fountain and gray building, he saw the woman sitting on the garden's edge. She sat alone. A cigarette dangled on her lower lip, while a backpack rested at her feet. He decided to center the frame with her. Through his viewfinder she came into better focus. This woman, who he guessed in her resilient mid 30s, returned his lens stare. Most female subjects would've turned away or covered their faces or gestured rudely. She only expelled cigarette smoke. Lowery lingered before and after snapping the picture. Gradually she reminded him of a girl he'd known in Connecticut. One of the approachable ones in high school. Miriam Trescuervos. Much older than the Miriam he remembered, heavier and sterner, too. But nearly 30 years apart, they shared the same lupine features emphasized by thick lips. Hadn't Miriam's people come from Spain? She was only first or second generation American. It wasn't too hard believing she'd retain foreign characteristics. Photo on film, Lowery walked towards the woman. Aware of his attention, she dropped the cigarette and crushed it beneath an engineer boot. On closer inspection differences became apparent. His subject was harder than Miriam could ever have been. Her expression was leaden where Miriam's had shone. The girl in his high school memory had a long thick mass of gleaming black hair. This woman did little for her short dull curls. Lowery knew what she was. It didn't matter. They conversed in terse Castilian. Lowery mentioned her facile resemblance. She acknowledged being many women to many men. He wondered aloud how it might've been to fuck Miriam Trescuervos. His English made her flesh and blood ghost rise as if weighted by stones. Upright, Lowery saw how Miriam never would've filled out. He'd last seen her when she verged on recognizable adulthood. Seasoned by life, the person now standing before him had ripe breasts, a womanly waist and hips. Lowery asked her name. Carmen. His smirk sufficed for both. She stated relaxation services and their prices. He accepted. Carmen sealed negotiations by fishing a pack of cigarettes from her jammed backpack then lipping one out of the carton. She would've rummaged further for a lighter or matches if he hadn't provided one. Although he himself never smoked, carrying a lighter often proved invaluable. Lowery didn't discriminate among women who smoked. He just got them to blow their plumes away from him. She slung the backpack over a shoulder and they abandoned bright bustle for murky quiet. Twilight settled thickly over Carmen's street. Dim streetlamps deepened grays and browns. One notable color burst: an anarchist's red "A" defacing someone's wall. Carmen didn't bother switching on the stairwell lamps. They climbed three flights through gloom. Noisy gloom. Her footfalls were cinder blocks scraping dry wood. She unlocked and opened an apartment door. Wilted light and tired colors escaped. Before crossing this threshold, Carmen yelled out a name: "Fausto!?" When she repeated it, and silence continued answering, he followed her inside. The worn door now at his back carried a brand-new lock. Lowery wondered whether obsolescence or insistent police compelled that new hardware's installation. Stale cooking oil and tobacco twanged the air. Any stronger and both would've left bad tastes in Lowery's mouth. Carmen led him through a neglected living room into her bedroom. By its looks this chamber must've been hers. "Fausto," if he bunked at that address, slept in another corner. Lowery felt certain this Carmen's domain. Surrounding the rumpled bed and smashed pillows every flat surface held doodads or gewgaws regarding Betty Boop. She'd even stuck the cartoon character's postcards in mirror corners. Which was how he knew "Fausto" rested elsewhere. Such incessant cuteness would've driven any man insane. Carmen sparked up another cigarette. While she luxuriated in it, Lowery pulled euros from his wallet. He flashed the bills for her inspection. She nodded approval and he placed them under a statuette of the flapper that held down a dresser. The money part transacted, Carmen began stripping. She managed this without once disturbing her cigarette. Briskly, efficiently, boots thudded on the floor, denims crumpled there, too. Carmen rolled the drab long-sleeved crew up her torso, carefully expanding its neckline to accommodate her cigarette. Shorn of outerwear Lowery glimpsed her figure. Curves contained in flimsy black bra and panties, she inhabited a woman's body. An esthete weight-watcher might've disdained the ample though not yet pendulous breasts, round hips and solid legs. Perhaps even more so when her last garments joined those already on the floor. Dollar-pancake sized nipples centered each chest globe. Lowery knew from experience that with the right dialing -- orally or manually -- they'd pucker into brown crags. Her pubic patch mimicked the same sad care she gave the brush atop her head. While Carmen readied the bed, Lowery shucked his clothes. He left his watch on, placed his camera, lighter, wallet and passport within easy grab-and-dash range. After grading the bed and arranging two hillocks of pillows -- a pile to support her head, the other her hips -- Carmen again picked through her backpack. Out she plucked a condom. She faced Lowery. Her eyes aligned on his tool. Lips pursed, Carmen nodded to herself. Once more into her backpack. A short search, and she'd exchanged foil packages. Carmen explained the first rubber fit white men; it was obvious Lowery had black blood. He laughed. She almost cracked a smile. Carmen reclined upon the rickety bed. Its four legs swayed. More so when Lowery joined her. Carmen kept him kneeling off to the side. With one hand she stroked his meat into stiffness; the other readied her snatch through one rough two-finger massage. While she prepped them both, Lowery leaned forward and kneaded her tits. They were firm melons. So much so he checked whether these were a store-bought pair. No scarring, no unnatural skin ripples. Nature had been generous was all. His fingertips flipped across Carmen's nipples. Both responded as expected. Somehow Lowery refrained from pulling them. Teats though they had become, they'd only dispense pleasure. He bent forward and filled his mouth with one. His tongue sliding along the rough dense peak disrupted Carmen's own stoking. When he switched to licking its sister, she mumbled something unintelligible and sighed. Lowery's pole hard, and her box adding a peculiar tang in the atmosphere, Carmen fitted the big boy raincoat on him. Engorged and protected now, Lowery pressed against her. Not that he didn't appreciate it but Carmen's guiding him towards her haven was unnecessary. As a matter of fact her goddamn hand got in the way! He found her hidden spot loose and lippy. Lowery skipped any finesse. From his first poke onward his long strokes pounded Carmen. Their pelvises smacked. His every lunge ended with her knees jerking up near his triceps, while her tits whipsawed. Throughout it all Carmen ground palms against his shoulders, squeezed her eyes shut, and gritted her teeth. Lowery thought he saw tears. If so, he ignored them. The bed, though, that was the true measure of his violence. The headboard might've been flush against the wall. However, his careless exertions bashed the wobbly bed into long faded wallpaper. When he came, Lowery lost himself to mindless repetition. He heard the tempo quicken and saw Carmen's nipples flapping. Strangled grunts finished a brutish climax that mauled her pussy. Lowery yanked his cock into open air then just rolled beside her. She opened her eyes. Relief smoothed her face. A moment spent collecting herself, Carmen and the bed creaked as she sat up. Impatient hands fumbled in her backpack. The rummage through it yielded cigarettes. One precariously hanging between her slack lips, Carmen waited for his light. This time she held his hand in her own. Her draw off his lighter lasted longer, too. Folded arms supporting breasts, concentration replaced indifference on Carmen's face. Lowery hoped she wasn't seeking meaningful or deep words. They had merely fucked. It wasn't a commemorative event. Carmen asked about her American likeness, meaning Miriam Trescuervos. Had she and Lowery been lovers? Did the affair end tragically with her in another's arms? Was there any regret? 'Wonder-fuck!' Lowery thought. 'A whore who is a telenovena addict!' He answered succinctly. "No. But she had two ugly sisters who put out whenever the sun rose. Their sister preferred cautious men. She even married one. She surprised him and disappointed herself by dying young. The end." Naturally Carmen said, "That's so sad." Carmen was not someone with whom Lowery wished to resurrect Miriam Trescuervos. He swung out of bed and started dressing. Occupied by the mysteries of a cigarette, Carmen remained obtuse, unaware of his rush. Fully clothed again, personal effects restored to his person, Lowery nearly told Carmen "s'long." Instead her clouded expression intrigued him. He asked if she'd allow him to snap her photo. She shrugged approval. Lowery set the flash on "fill." As muse, Carmen provided nothing. Her poses weren't provocative at all. Passivity took over and bleached her face. Only during the end frames did something like inspiration strike. She twisted her body towards him and spread her legs wide. Two fingers dug among her pelt, splitting enough fur to show pink. In English for himself Lowery murmured that these final exposures were for his Christmas cards. Confusion waved across Carmen's face. Letting "boop-boop-be-doop" serve as his good-bye, he left. The next morning toiling laborers and talkative housekeepers roused Lowery from solid sleep. He tried deciding which created more noise: renovation using power tools or wooden heels clacking on bare floors. Showered, shaved and dressed, Lowery devoured from the breakfast buffet. While hurrying through his meal he eyed fellow guests picking at theirs. Italians by their chatter. Fair-skinned, attired in casual chic his more vain countrymen would envy. He left the peacocks for pavement. Mild sun blessed the streets. The natives, however, felt differently. Sweaters and light jackets abounded. By their outerwear one might've mistaken this for Barrow, Alaska, not Barcelona, Spain. Uncovered arms poking from his short-sleeved shirt no doubt marked him as an alien. Back at the Fontana metro, new people following the same disposition milled. Before going downtown, Lowery hoped to develop two other rolls and the one he finished with Carmen there. Not in the States. Drop those off at the wrong developer, some prude technician might take umbrage at adult nudity. From shock, disgust, childishness, the tech would naturally alert the police. They of course would have the force's one self-righteous moral arbiter investigate rather than any mature badge-toting adult. Forget that! He saw a photo shop. It advertised one-hour developing. Which in a Latin country meant "same-day." The two female clerks wore sweaters under their smocks. His accent preceded him. The women were happy for live-practice English. After agreeing to his prints' particulars, both promised him his photographs would be ready at "16 o'clock." Emerging again onto Placa Catalunya, Lowery didn't see Carmen. Not that he sought her. Undeterred now he descended La Rambla towards the harbor. People, tourists mostly like himself, jammed the tree-spotted promenade. Autos ran along either side of the pedestrian island. Until the Columbus Monument low bulky buildings pressed upon crowded sidewalks. The only locals around sold periodicals, souvenirs, birds or waited tables whose restaurants sat across either side of traffic. Despite growling motors, jumbled languages, squawking fowls, he got no sense of having his ears assaulted. Occasionally his fellow gawkers clotted together for better stares at tableaux-vivant performers or breakdancers moved by earthy African percussions. At Columbus' pillar Lowery noticed the explorer pointed toward ... Genoa? Everything considered, wasn't a New World direction merited? Believing his morning tourist obligation fulfilled, Lowery decided he had a thirst needing beer. He remembered walking past an impressive saloon. After retracing half his steps he entered an Australian-themed bar. The bartender was pale, lithe and frisky. A wispy red mane flowed behind her. Italian by birth, Lena spoke flat English. She poured Imperial pints. Idling while sipping, he fabricated Lena's history. Since she had the requisite cheekbones and body type, Lowery credited her with having modeled. In Milan. Naturally. Years of high-living jet-setting rendered her disillusioned. Rather than suicide, Lena discarded notoriety for simple, honest, satisfying toil among simple, honest, satisfying people. By the end of his speculation, Lowery had not only lured its subject but several Americans and Britons who'd dropped in for their own worthy pints. Skeptical as she reacted, Lena was flattered nonetheless. In jest she thought about taking Lowery home. There, Lena would have him relate his impression to her husband, a man who'd seemingly transferred all his passion to Barcelona FC. Rhetorically, insinuation buttering his voice, Lowery asked, "How can men in shorts compare against your beauty?" Besides a big tip, Lowery left Lena and the remaining barflies wondering the depth of his sincerity. Spanish Developments Once again warming beneath sunlight, he chose visiting the gothic quarter next. He'd read the area might induce claustrophobia. No. Sitting in a small living room across from some suspicious father who knew his daughter's suitor's every effort would be dedicated to getting between her legs induced claustrophobia. Tight narrow streets were just that. Nothing else. He couldn't tell whether these streets were crowded through numbers or volume. Bathe outer streets as it did, the sun only touched the historic quarter's highest reaches. Street-level made do with crisp shadow. Lowery checked his map. The Picasso Museum was nearby. Soon enough both streets leading there became funnels. Short loud people clogged either entrance. In bored civil tones museum employees announced anticipated waiting times. They sounded long in any language. Lowery bought Picasso postcards, among others, then pushed on elsewhere. He found himself standing again on the quarter's main drag, Carrer Princessa. Deciphering Picasso was to have been his afternoon's highlight. Unlike a close pal of his, he lacked deep enough cultural insight. Lowery could attend ballet. He could follow orchestral compositions. He could break his arches at art exhibitions. Nevertheless none of that stuff truly stirred him. Lowery checked his watch. Long hours until Barcelona FC tilted against Manchester City. He ambled along Princessa and crossed a square. A restaurant specializing in game caught his eye. He noted it mentally for later. Further steps led upon a lottery retailer. He remembered tickets bought at the beach. Having checked his numbers the day before, Lowery knew Spain owed him euros. His three-figure winnings brightened his attitude. It must've shown because several passersby let their merriment reflect his. Lowery almost passed an eyewear shop when he saw her. She stood among two accomplices. All tried on sunglasses then assessed themselves in a mirror while exchanging opinions. The woman was thinner than he usually preferred them. Immaculate posture stretched and flattened her figure. Beneath the green sweater juvenile breasts got lost under knitted folds; black stovepipe jeans encased her legs. Surprisingly, the black flats she wore didn't transform her feet into war boats. His reckoning not helped any by the plate glass window between them, he guessed she hadn't breached 25 yet. Deep olive burnished her angular features. Above her slightly jutting chin, a wide mouth with active rubbery lips around perfect dazzling white teeth. Perhaps someone malicious could've judged her nose a prow. Short, slick raven slats whipped from forehead to blouse collar. Lowery waited for her to remove those shades. Sunglasses plucked from her face and restored to rack unveiled lively brown eyes. Only by chance, Lowery was sure, did her sweeping glance halt a perceptible instant on him then continue unaffected. So much for believing himself inconspicuous. The three women left the store empty-handed. Whoever she was she piqued his interest. This carrer would had to have been vacant for Lowery not to trail her. Rather, what he assumed normal foot traffic hopefully provided suitable cover. His prey and her girlfriends strolled chatting, arm-in-arm three abreast until La Rambla. There they turned right. Their steps ended at the Liceu metro entrance. Cheeks kissed, good-byes said, her friends disappeared into the conveyance. The object of interest herself twirled, sought something, saw it, then by set of her jaw and shoulders straightening, apparently made a momentous decision. Sure steps that cut off pedestrians marched directly toward him. She spoke gleeful Italian accented English. The bubbly kind which raised an involuntary grin on his face. "Mr. American, you aren't such a good detective." "And I don't play one on TV either," Lowery said. "Hey! How did you know I'm American?" "You project," she said. "By your demeanor, I mean. The Spaniards, they absorb. Only Americans and the arrogant project. And you're too neatly dressed to be English. But where are your new white sneakers, Mr. American? Or is it Joe? You're on holiday, no?" She was a marvel. One who had him by leaps and bounds. But tired already of her "Mr. American" label, Lowery introduced himself. She trilled likewise. "Sylvia." They shook hands as if they'd just concluded a deal. His mitt swallow her fine fingers. Sylvia asked why he followed her. "Am I irresistibly beautiful?" Put-on vanity chimed in her voice. "No," Lowery said, "but you are alluring which is far more rewarding. So do you enjoy a lot of sudden admirers?" "Some. Though not so many Americans. At least not so many handsome ones like yourself." Lowery asked how one said "bullshit" in Italian. Sylvia laughed heartily enough to draw undisguised attention. "There is a place up the street on the other side of the plaza," Sylvia said. "We should be seen there. Too much riff-raff on this part of Las Ramblas. No pickpockets, too." Sylvia wheeled and jabbed through oncoming tourists. He glided in her wake. Sylvia's rolling strides pulled them into the painfully stylish outdoor seating of a bar serving as cornerstone to Universitat and Passeig de la Gracia. Once they sat themselves a waiter materialized at their table. Drinks requested, Sylvia extracted a slim pack of cigarettes from her pants pocket. Before flipping one out she asked Lowery whether he minded her smoking. "I don't want to offend ... unintentionally." He cocked his lighter. "Go ahead. I'll spark it up." Peculiar delight creased her face. Cigarette traversing mouth to fingers, Sylvia leaned forward and received his flame. She exhaled smoke as elegantly as she held the cancer stick. During their time together Sylvia availed herself to many cigarettes. Yet she only troubled each for two drags at most. Otherwise she merely used them as props. "I like you even better now, Paul. No scold about smoking. No ugly face either." He placed his lighter atop the small bag containing postcards. "We're adults, not children." The waiter presented their drinks. When he left they touched glasses. Lowery knew his drink would taste better if it weren't so overpriced. But seeing sultry joy wave across Sylvia's face let such a petty concern evaporate. She had been right about this location, though. As fine a vantage as it was to be viewed, it offered even better sights. Dominated by Placa Catalunya, esteem-stroking commerce housed behind stately facades summoned enticingly before them. And where there were high-end stores roamed attractive women. On both sides of Universitat. In gaggles and singly browsed every possible wild-maned, tanned, curvy, hip-swiveling variation of Iberian siren. If Lowery had been younger, he would've licked his chops. Sylvia's voice corralled his attention. Her left-field question squared his focus entirely. "What's your favorite Italian movie?" He answered immediately. "L'Avventura." Sylvia's dismay was genuine. It quickly became wonder. Before, Lowery had existed as trifling possible amusement. Now he rocketed in her estimation. Respect also buffed him. Her voice indicated his elevated status. "Most people say something like Frank Sinatra or Sophia Loren when I ask that question. Those who hear me properly try and impress with some Fellini movie. Often the same over-praised weak one from the 70s. So, Paul, you really are trying hard to impress me." "Sylvie baby, growing up I banged a lot of Monica Vittis. Seriously, I have a college pal who dragged a lot of us to stuff we ordinarily would've kept at 10-foot pole distance. Hard as it is to believe, we're all not uncouth and uncultured. We're just being led by mouth-breathing, knuckle-draggers right now." She clapped her hands and laughed. He asked her to reciprocate by answering how long she'd lived in the States. Rather than protest, Sylvia asked what tipped him. Lowery rattled off her ease speaking American English as well as her general comportment. More minor amazement after he gave a glancing profile. Hers. "When you came back from the States, your family, if not friends, saw you more effervescent and forward than when you left. The confidence you took as the new normal they mistook as overbearing. And regardless of the language you spoke it was no longer deferential where such had been expected." She swung between embarrassment and astonishment. Sylvia confirmed his assessment. She'd studied then worked a year in Philadelphia. Living there longer than that she considered impossible. "The women were silly and always envious. The men loud, brutish and scared." "Yeah," Lowery said. "That sounds like the Philly I know." Confessing to lacking his clairvoyance, Sylvia badgered Lowery to reveal things about himself. She thought it only fair. He agreed. Hostelry developed his observation and extrapolation skills. Schooling among a diverse university student body unchained him from one strictly defined Gold Coast Connecticut upbringing. Since then no wife. No dependents. No debts. No problems. "You always seek younger women?" Sylvia asked. Lowery was honest. "No. Not necessarily. But younger women, lacking seasoning, are adventurous. That's from not knowing any better. I'm here to teach. To guide. Besides women my age have been made fragile by experience. At least most of the ones who've let me get close. They've all been worried about something in their pasts catching up to them and disappointing them all over again." "Ah! So women your age are too cautious for your liking?" His silence served as his answer. "Paul, back at the shop when you spied on me, did I remind you of some other girl? A woman, a former lover you let go and now regret." "Good Lord, no! I'd never do that! Believe me if there were girls around like you when I thought I knew it all but truly knew nothing, I never would've left them to become who I am today. That's the sort of affect you have, Sylvie." She heard him out. Then she burst into belly laughter. "That's bullshit, no?" "That's bullshit, yes," he said. Lowery checked his watch. They'd gabbed away the better part of afternoon. It'd be evening shortly. Reluctant as he was to mention it, he told Sylvia about his photos needing retrieval. "I skip tomorrow," Lowery said. "I don't like leaving too many things hanging until the last minute." She volunteered accompanying him to the photo shop. When he protested his errand would inconvenience her, Sylvia dismissed this complaint via a distinctly Italian hand gesture. The photo shop clerks were happy to see him return. Could they have simpered more if they prostrated themselves and intoned his name? No. Leaving, he wondered whether the grins on their faces might ever fail. Sylvia also noticed their obsequiousness. She asked, and the only answer he dredged: "Maybe it was just that kind of day." Prints in possession, postcard stamps hurriedly purchased at the tabac, the afternoon agreeably lazy, Lowery suggested a few more cocktails. Certainly dinner with so fetching an accidental companion. She purred from his compliment's implication. Sylvia peered around Fontana. The neighborhood's meager offerings dissatisfied her. Once again the metro downtown. They surfaced amid heady ostentation. He assumed she was an area habitue. Her steps brought them to a crushingly nouveau restaurant. Its absurd artiness disoriented him. He presumed her choice valued "presentation" over "portions." The wait staff wore uniforms better suited for warders, not servers. Since Sylvia didn't inquire after his opinion of this establishment he kept it to himself. One of the screws, uh, staff, left menus with their cocktails. Settled, thirsts slaked somewhat, Lowery spoke. "You know, you never told me whether you actively pursue older men." "Actively as opposed to subconsciously?" Sylvia said. "Neither. I say when you come across an educated man enjoy the opportunity. If he's older, better. How else will I know what to demand later?" "I guess you won't be one of those little naïve wives a misbehaving husband will run rings around." "Falling in love shouldn't mean you become stupid," she said. Lowery laughed. "Local guys must love your challenge." She shrugged. "I don't live in Barcelona. The friends you saw me with work in France. We meet here because it's convenient is all." Lowery admitted this his first visit to Barcelona. Sylvia asked what he'd seen and done. Lolling on the beach with Nancy and Kathy she accepted. His paltry city itinerary made her indignant. He tried mollifying her. "Isn't there some fountain around here where you toss a coin to assure you'll be back?" She corrected him quietly. "That's Rome." "Oh," Lowery said. "Maybe I'll come back anyway." Sylvia rolled her eyes. She opened her menu, skimmed it absently. Lowery did likewise. Nothing really grabbed him. Their server appeared. More cocktails requested, and delivered, they ordered. Octopus for Sylvia, salmon for Lowery. Images of her devouring octopus unsettled him. He hoped the sauce was thick. Sylvia asked to see his pictures. He had three rolls, 72 exposures, printed. Mostly of time spent on the Costa Garraf. While she flipped through their week, he used the period between bread and entrée to scribble brief postcard-type messages. Fortunately there were only few people he needed addressing in America. She just didn't peruse his photographs. Sylvia studied them as if determining whether they were genuine Old Master oils or clever fakes. Rather than wait until a proper moment, she interrupted his "greetings from ..." jottings by laying 3"x5" inquiries atop whatever card suffered his pen. Not only did Sylvia get explanations, she also chopped up plenty of declarative sentences. Lowery distinguished Nancy from Kathy. Sylvia didn't merely gaze at the two women. Her stare dissected them. She easily rendered cool judgments. "The skinny one with black hair, she's pretty. A strong woman, yes? The other one, the chubby, ah, she's polenta. You have any use for her? Really?" While Nancy passed muster, Lowery wondered how poor Kathy might regard being compared to mild cheese. Next time they met he'd work that into conversation and see where it went. For the longest time Sylvia obsessed over the same two photographs. He only became aware of this after her interruptions lapsed. Lowery looked up from the postcard before him. She drizzled olive oil on a torn chunk of bread. The morsel lightly soaked, Sylvia bit and chewed deliberately. That swallowed, a sip of water passed her lips. Afterwards she resumed deconstructing the same one or two photos into their emulsions. She finally earned his attention. Sylvia turned one of the pictures to him. A narrow grin curled her lips. Posed nude on the beach, Lowery stood between Kathy and Nancy, arms around both. Each either squinted from sun or sweat stinging their eyes. All were relaxed and smiled easily. Under that sun, in that humidity, their bodies shined until they glowed. Essentially he saw photographs without distinction. Then he looked a bit harder, seeing them as a stranger might. His dong and nuts hung as if weighted. Rather, age and climate exaggerated portions of his physique. Heavy hanging as Lowery ordinarily was, these two pictures had him close to being a tripod. That explained the photo shop clerks' exceptional cheer. He wondered how often his uglies had been downloaded today. One comforting certainty: viewers wouldn't remember his face. "I understand now why you visit Spain with two girls," Sylvia said. "Oh, Sylvie, it's a lot more complicated than that." She twisted those portraits around. "Looks simple to me." The last snapshots featuring Carmen Sylvia dismissed as pornography. "Uninspired pornography at that. This girl, she's so common. Fucking her is one thing. Evidence of it is bad. Like you have no standards. The wrong people see this and they think badly of you." "Am I a bad person, Sylvie?" She weighed the question. "Tonight I am not the wrong person for you to know." After dinner Lowery was adrift. Sylvia signaled she lacked any qualms regarding their sharing the night together. Ideally they'd close down Barcelona then find themselves back at her hotel where nature could overwhelm them. However, he had a midday flight home to catch. Were he a kid again, relatively speaking, rebooking, paying the rip-off fees and new fare in order to plumb her sweet spot would've been worthwhile. Unfortunately, this Paul Lowery was a responsible adult. Besides, swerve as he wanted, Sylvia lodged down by the harbor. Logistics worked time against him. Outside on Passeig de la Gracia, Lowery voiced his hindrance. He apologized. Instead of showing disappointment or petulance, Sylvia suggested they stroll up the gaudy boulevard. Night had settled and sidewalks buzzed from talky pedestrians charged in neon. Along the way he slid his postcards into a yellow mailbox. Only when they crossed busy Diagonal did street life become sedate. Their chatter now consisted of her Philadelphia experiences and his Connecticut/Colorado disparity. She'd visited his corner of New England. Sylvia performed a brief pantomime. Her disparaging caricatures deftly caught Gold Coast women. Seeing her act made him glad all over again he'd forsaken Connecticut. Soon the pair stood at the Fontana metro entrance. He recognized its nighttime scene. Variations of which played out among the young and randy everywhere, didn't it? Bearings regained, Lowery conducted them down a cross street. At its end on the left his hotel. The elevator door closing behind them, motion-sensor light switches and their own footsteps broke the ninth floor hush. Inside his room a desk lamp issued sufficient enough light for both. Those four walls had gotten stuffy in his absence. Opening windows allowed refreshing cool night air. Sylvia's voice was softly distressed. "Paul. We've been so busy doing everything else we haven't kissed." He fixed that omission quickly. Sylvia responded with one hot greedy mouth. Around a man chestier than Lowery, her arms might've been mistaken for bony. Lean as Lowery was, he felt he could've crushed her. He pulled back, searched her face, swam in her depthless eyes. Lowery rolled the sweater off her torso. She complied while he removed every stitch and shoes. He took particular care undoing buttons, bra snap and belt; flats he treated like glass slippers, though in reverse. In that light the nibs on Sylvia's small chest were dark chocolate drops. Under the slim black lace obscuring her sex, a well-tended strip glossier than the hair atop her head. Kneeling before her while she stepped out of her panties, Lowery tongue-teased Sylvia's smooth pink secret. Shivering from his affection, she planted steadying hands against his shoulders. He stood, retreated a step, appraising this new possession. Sylph-slender, girlish hips, spare musculature, all she lacked were wings and a wand. He'd happily provide the last. His stare unnerved her. She abashedly folded arms across her chest. Lowery blinked, apologizing. He quickly disrobed. Sylvia's eyes settled on his hardening member. The goofiest smile he'd seen in a while turned her eyes into slits. She reached out and grabbed his dick with both hands. Her gentle tug drew him close. They embraced, their mouths an active seal. Sylvia ground her belly into the hot poker throbbing between them. Lowery nodded towards the bed. She yanked covers while he rooted through his shaving kit for rubbers. Lowery turned, finding her already reclining. He rolled on protection and joined rumpling the bed. His hands tenderly palmed her chest's slight mounds. Once Sylvia's nipples firmed into knobs, Lowery maneuvered their bodies and pushed into her. Spanish Developments With his first plunge Sylvia cried out. Her operatic response didn't surprise him. She seemed the type. Long caring strokes let her writhe and sigh. He controlled her. Lowery exploited their pleasure by staggering his lunges and delaying his withdrawals. She could only anticipate then react. His mistiming prolonged her gratification. Lowery saw it in her face, felt it when her legs jellied and hands along his arms clutched him. Patience reached, control lost, Lowery emptied himself until she was helpless yet happy. They eased into mutually peaceful slumber. Lowery had requested what he considered an early wake-up call. Having gone to bed sooner than usual mitigated it somewhat. Nonetheless both woke bedraggled. He accompanied her into the shower. Initially Sylvia regarded him as one might a stranger. Washing her back while nuzzling Sylvia's nape reintroduced them. Cradling his balls, soaping his cock into ruler straightness completed their familiarity. Shower streams diluted Lowery's hot thick spurts against her flat belly until these, like the previous night, became memory. The pair dried and dressed in silence. Not from any embarrassment but out of the sense "this" maybe could've gone deeper. Of course that was unrealistic. They'd met by chance. Pleasant conversation led to dinner which culminated in vacation sex. Neither delved into the other's soul. He hadn't even learned her last name or profession. Each truly remained ciphers both temporarily, broadly and conveniently solved. Instead of behaving inconspicuously or avoiding the housekeepers' glances, Sylvia walked among them head raised high. The same scene played in America would've had a male peacock strutting ahead of his night's reluctantly identified partner. Lowery wondered if the Iberians even had any concept of the "walk of shame." In the lobby he suggested they have breakfast. Sylvia declined. She wasn't agitated so much as anxious to leave. Lowery offered escorting her to the metro. Again she declined. He followed her outside. They lingered at the hotel entrance. Sylvia faced him. She was simpatico. "Paul, you think your steps end at the metro? We shared a moment. Okay. An involved moment. It was nice. We had fun. You are kind. Nothing more. We owe each other nothing more, okay? Except maybe kind thoughts. Later on don't remember me as another Monica Vitti. I'm better than that. Claudia Cardinale, yes? I leave you here." Sylvia reached up, caressed his cheek, a wan smile his answer. She kissed him but the gesture would've been hard-pressed to match last night's steam. Close together as they stood, Lowery barely heard her farewell. "Ciao, Paul." She turned and walked away. He watched her jaunty stride recede until the green sweater and black denims vanished around the corner. Other guests had also witnessed their separation. Several Britons had watched her departure. They were definitely arriving. A bold one detached himself from the pod. Lager on his breath informed Lowery these Brits had waited until morning before calling it a night. Addressing Lowery, his jolly new best chum brayed, "You shudda taken a picture, mate! It'd last longer!"