Barcelona

Out of the corner of my eye, I see you taking the fruit out of the sangria. You sit there eating the alcohol soaked orange slices as I listen politely to the conversation of your friend. She is telling me about the Gaudí facts she learned on her solo tour of the Sagrada Família. I opted to go wander the alleyways looking for used books and you took a nap. She learned how Gaudí got struck by a tram and died. He looked too much like a vagabond for anyone to call medical attention right away. This makes me sad, so I keep drinking the overly saccharine wine. The tapas plates between us are getting cold since we disagreed over which ones to get. Neither of us won. You’re bored of the city and we’re leaving the next day, so you don’t even pretend to be interested in what she is saying. I start to feel sorry for her, an oblivious participant in this game we play with each other. Meanwhile we’ve run out of wine. This is when you start picking out the fermented apples. By the time we pay the bill, you’re drunk. We both put an arm under you and lift you up so you can walk down the boulevard. I stare at the people eating and laughing at the various bars we pass on our way back to the hotel. I don’t recall laughing once during our dinner. We should have ordered another carafe of sangria. You keep chattering nonsense about going to Las Ramblas but you can’t even hold yourself up. When we get back to our hotel, the concierge finds the situation hysterical and dumps you onto a luggage cart. He rolls you back to our room and I debate going back out. Sleep washes over me while I’m still deciding. In the morning, he sends up water and aspirin for you because he’s in love and asks you to come back sometime. In your embarrassment, you give him an overly prodigal tip. We barely make to the airport in time to leave.

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