As he passes, the man with
three children and the tired wife
rolls his eyes at me.
Briefly, we connect.
His look says simply:
I have three children and a
tired wife.
We are in an airless airport,
at the end of a faded
departure hall which,
at one time, must have been the
new departure hall.
Dispirited, we slump on
purple plastic seats
while the walls sweat.
This is budget flying at
its budgetest.
Then I see her.
The walk gets me first.
A swaying, seductive sashay,
wrought from confidence,
accompanied by the perfectly
weighted metre of her
black heels.
Heads turn.
This is Woman - distilled.
I give her a name. María.
Or Natalia.
Or Lola.
Perhaps Sofía.
Or... Julieta.
Julieta who eats fresh, crusty
bread and olives, Julieta with the
dark sunglasses, Julieta whose hair
blows across her face, Julieta
who orders café con leche from
the waiter who arrives before she sits.
Julieta who sleeps in the
heat of the afternoon, under a fan,
while outside a dog barks and a
church bell rings and a guitar softly plays,
the sounds weaving into her
breathless dreams.
An electronic voice crackles,
an elbow digs into my ribs.
We join the cheerless queue,
and every wife looks at
every husband.
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