A Nice Night, Despite the Rain
"And we’ll have the crab and shrimp croquetas, too."
Everything was delicious, delicious, delicious.
It seemed a very special night.
"It’s nice how we all came to New York and became friends," you said.
Very nice, indeed. I think about it often. I will love you always, through this and everything else.
There’s no way, perhaps, for you to have expected the paella with all of its one, two, three, four, five, sixsix, we counted on our fingers, sixspecial parts: shrimp, chorizo, calamari, clams, mussels, and scallops, but there was no way at all for any of us to have expected the two blazing guitarists and the flamenco dancer, pounding into the nylon strings and pounding harder into the wood floor. I wish I could play like that, but it’s very difficult. He’s using both of his hands against the instrument, one at the frets, the other against the body. And notice the speed, the patterns that his fingers create are just so beautiful, blinding.
And the handclaps and the hollers.
And you joke that he would make for a good lover. "Something about him is very hot."
And I can only agree, really: I wish I could play like that, yes.
"But it would only last for a month, before getting old," you amend.
We smile and laugh and nod. Like these white candles dancing in front of us, we might even want to melt.
I would like for your smile to last forever.
I didn’t listen to the hi-fi last night. Instead, I was lucky enough to wander into some live music and good food with beautiful friends.
Wes, I imagine, had a similar night in Barcelona.