He had his back to me, but at intervals he glanced around. His companions were young, though some were not young enough to be students; they were young enough to laugh at most of what was said. I looked for the woman who had been selling jewellery in the square but she was not there.
At first, I remember, Tom was afraid to let me see him naked. He undressed by sitting on the bed and slipping on his pyjamas. When he turned out the light he would lean away from me in the bed and we made love only when the heat of each other in the same bed brought us together. But even then he was nervous when I touched him. He wanted to lie beside me for a long time holding me with his head buried in my shoulder and neck. He would lie still. Sometimes I thought that he was asleep and I would reach down and touch his penis and it would be hard and waiting. He would gasp for a moment and move his hands along my body. Almost as soon as he was inside me he would ejaculate, crying to himself, whining almost and then he would want to turn and sleep.
It is October in Barcelona. I continue to explore and find new places; days fill up. I change habits. I now have breakfast in Calle Petritxol which winds out of Plaza del Pino. There are several little cafés that specialise in coffee, chocolate, little sandwiches and pastries. I go to the same one every day at the same time; they know me now and smile at me when I come in.
At first I did not know if they were open on Sundays. As I walked down to find out I passed through Plaza del Pino and found once more the paintings on sale in the middle of the square. I was thinking of him. The crowds were coming out of mass in the church of Santa María del Pino as I walked by. The café was open but all the places near the door were taken so I had to go and sit at the back. As the waiter led me down to a vacant table, I saw him fix his eyes on me. I had not expected to see him here. He was paler than I remembered, but his eyes were the same and his lips. He looked at me as though I were coming to join them at the table. When I sat down he did not look away. His companion was older, moresallow than he, almost unhealthy looking. His face was thin. He was wearing a bow-tie. They continued talking and when they stood up to leave they both smiled at me. He did not look behind as he left.
I went out onto the Ramblas and walked up to Plaza Cataluña and then back down towards the cathedral. I stopped and tried to think for a moment. I tried to work out what I was doing as I walked back towards the paintings in Plaza del Pino. The small woman was there again and he was standing behind her. I walked around looking at the paintings until I came to them. I stopped and the woman spoke to me.
“English? American?” she said.
“English,” I said. He was watching me.
“Tourist?” she asked. I smiled and shrugged.
“You like Barcelona?”
I nodded. The man spoke to her for a while and then they both turned and looked at me.
“You live here in the Barrio Gótico?” she asked.
“I live in Calle del Pino,” I replied.
“You live in pensión ?”
“Yes.”
“You have family here?”
“No.”
“Work?”
“No.”
“What is your name?”
“Katherine.”
“I am Rosa. Do you like paintings?”
“Yes,” I hesitated, “yes, sometimes.”
They spoke among themselves and I wondered if I should leave. I wondered if I should walk away.
“He want to paint you, this man,” she said.
I smiled and shook my head.
“No, I don’t want to.” She translated for him. “Is he your husband?” I asked her.
“No.” He looked at me and made a sign as though he had a brush in his hand and painted at his face. He began to nod in assent. I shook my head.
“Why not?” the woman asked. I didn’t reply. I pointed to a painting of boats on a beach on the easel beside us.
“Is that his?”
“No,” she said. When she told him what I had asked he laughed.
“He is good painter,” she said and he nodded
Ann Voss Peterson, J.A. Konrath