the girl from barcelona...

We had an unspoken respect and understanding. We each had our own schedules in the day time: she would work and I would ride my bike until supper time. Sometimes I’d come back early and we’d go on long walks together. I loved watching her. There was a quirky charm about her that I found comforting.

I was wearing a pink jumper the day that she told me her life story… I still think that pink and brown look great together. I would sit on the floor as she puttered about around me. Party because I was lazy, but also because I liked how she towered over me. She was a tall kind of woman, with a bold, strong character to back her up. Her smile was infectious and her laughter, contagious. Sitting on the floor of her kitchen, I listened to her story. She ran back and forth from her kitchen to her bathroom as I asked a hundred and one questions. I watched her obsessively clean her counters and she’d mumble things like “I hate dirty sinks” under her breath while scrubbing. When she made a run to the cleaning supply closet, I jolted to my feet and poured my mug of tea all over her sink and counter then plopped myself back to where I was. When she came back, I could hardly hold in my laughter. She called me her Little Bug and ruffled my hair. I don’t remember why or how I became her Little Bug but I was, and I am to this day.

That night we sat and watched James Bond movies back to back. We listened to the train roll by and played card games. That night loops over in our minds. Every time we meet, we sing one line from a song I bet neither of us remembers, but it went “…the girl from Barcelona…”