Creative Nonfiction

I had met her with a group of other ladies near the fountain of Montjuic taking a night off to celebrate a beautiful fall evening. Posing in front of the lighted waters jetting into the night sky, she was petite, smaller than the others, not as full-fleshed. That chance meeting led to a conversation—my bad Spanish, their better English—and then an invitation to join them as they returned to their apartment for a party.

We both still had the leanness of youth and as we drank in the sitting area of their common room, her eyes were on me as much or more than mine were on her. Evening turned to night, and we found ourselves closer to each other. Two objects governed by a subtle sexual gravity and pulled into orbit. A certainty just as sure as the autumn moon, seen through the windows, circled our world.

She had a bottle of champagne in one hand as she rose from the black leather settee and beckoned with the other. I took it. Her grip was silk-soft yet firm. As I stood, she rubbed her thumb across the corded tendons prominent on the back of my hand. “Strong… yes?” she asked releasing my hand to run hers across my shoulder and right arm. She stroked my hand again and lightly held it, a little tug toward the hallway. Gravity. I let her lead the way.

In her room, though it also carried a chill, the breeze through the window brought delicate night music. The whispering of fountains and a susurration of the evening street noises of Barcelona, with a full moon rising over Las Ramblas… announcing the beginning of the weekend.

My senses heightened; the sound of the unsnapping was distinct. I turned from the window to sit next to her and watch long-nailed fingers work down the front of her shirt to reveal the inside arc of high-set breasts. A chiaroscuro effect from the lamp beside us; the room’s only light. As I watched, her flesh prickled… stiffening tips tented cloth as the curtains billowed next to the chaise lounge where we sat. The October winds.

I made a dry-throat swallow, the kind you make when anticipation has lined it with dust. I reached for the champagne. With gestures, she asked me to remove the foil from the neck of the bottle before I opened it.

“It’s rough on my tongue,” she explained in broken English and some Spanish I didn’t quite follow but got the meaning. She sat there; blouse unbuttoned down to her smooth stomach. Her fingers caressed satin flesh—for a heartbeat or two that seemed minutes long—then unhooked and tugged down the zipper. With the acute eyesight of arousal, I could see into the shadow of undone—flared open—pants. The center of pull…

I fumbled with the bottle and after a second’s difficulty peeled the foil from it. I offered it to her, and she made a pulling gesture that became a stroking motion as her smile broadened flashing bright, framed by scarlet lipstick.

I popped the cork and with the resulting gush of foamy white, she hurriedly leaned forward to take it in. The quick burst swallowed; she slowly licked the neck of the bottle lingering at the tip. Her eyes never left mine and laughing she offered the bottle. She opened her blouse wide and made a pouring gesture as she tugged pants and panties off and reclined. I poured. As I drank from her, the soft laughter turned to louder sighs that mixed with the sough of the night wind.

Later, sated, we moved to the balcony where wrapped in a blanket, I held her. We watched the moon fall from the sky while the statues danced near the fountains below. Soon she slept, and I listened to her and the breathing of one of the loveliest cities in the world.

I didn’t sleep. It was a perfect moment… in a perfect night, I didn’t want to end.

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