The Rain in Spain Read Free

told Javi she didn’t want to leave the Barrio Santa Cruz, the old Jewish Quarter, preferring their tiny, authentic hotel to luxury.
    The kid in the black pants and pressed white shirt stopped halfway between their two tables, looking from Javi to her and then back at Javi.
    Pains in my ass , she imagined he was thinking.
    She held her breath.
    Please don’t break this spell .
    “ Dos más de lo que la señora toma, por favor. ” Javi didn’t move an inch from his casual sprawl, but his voice made the kid jump and scurry away for two more of what she was drinking.
    The pigeons circled the tower again, swooping with that flock intelligence that let them stretch out in a long line before smoothly bunching up again, each bird always aware of its companions even as it flew an individual path.
    “What are you drinking?”
    She dragged her finger down the side of the glass, pushing more condensation to puddle on the table. “A tinto de verano .”
    “Red wine of summer?” Her Spanish accent was decent, but it still took him a moment.
    She smiled, feeling fond. It wasn’t his kind of drink. “Sort of like a Beaujolais mixed with Sprite. Gaseola limon. ” He pursed his lips, trying not to smile, and she knew he was wishing he’d ordered a beer. A Cruzcampo like the locals, even though he thought it tasted like shit. “Between the mixer and how rarely that kid makes it up here, I’m pretty sure I can just keep ordering these and still find my feet underneath me when I’m done.”
    They shared another smile. Getting used to the slower pace of Spanish restaurant service was hard for Americans, accustomed to constant, hovering staff.
    Today she had mostly enjoyed the long, lingering gaps between visits from the waiter, leaving her in sole possession of the rooftop and its view of all the sights they’d come here to see. Everything close enough to identify, but still out of reach.
    “How long have you been up here?”
    She didn’t actually know. “What time is it?”
    “Almost ten.”
    She looked away. The last sliver of a fat orange sun was sliding below the horizon, the sky still alight with pinks and golds to her left, but a velvety navy to her right where the heavy storm clouds still threatened. The city in front of her was a Magritte painting, buildings silhouetted against a lighter sky, windows glowing incandescent gold or fluorescent white, sparking against the dark.
    “The sun sets so late here. Not like at home.” Her cheeks were warm with the beginnings of a burn, even with the hat. He was waiting. “Since six.”
    “By yourself?”
    She flinched. He couldn’t think there was someone else? She tensed her shoulders, ready to defend herself, but then saw him. Head down, staring at the table top.
    By yourself? was completed with instead of with me.
    “Yes. Just thinking.” She couldn’t get her head straight around him. It was too hard to think past the wanting him.
    “About what?”
    About the influence of the Moors on Spanish architecture.
    About the difference between Iberian and Serrano ham.
    “About whether or not my husband made a bad choice when he married me.”
    Sharp inhale. His head jerked up. “ Magdalena— ”
    She shook her head. Don’t. She couldn’t have this conversation with him as herself, always lost in the spell of this man. Maybe she couldn’t have it at all. She’d never wanted so hard in her life, the way she wanted him. All her crushes and earlier loves were faded by him, old photos with washed-out colors, disappearing before her eyes.
    The waiter returned with their drinks—tall skinny glasses with four swallows of wine and sparkling lemon soda over ice—and left the scrap of paper that was the bill on Javi’s table. He would tip too much. They both did, knowing it exposed them as tourists but unable to stop.
    No one spoke. The waiter left.
    “I came from Barcelona. Have you been?” she asked. It was harsh, slamming the gate like that. Javi’s shoulders bunched up