Heatwave in Madrid

We’re in an old apartment with a fan on its last leg, whirring from the corner of the room. It’s blowing on everything but us; the torn crimson wallpaper off the wall; the strings from my teal bikini draped over the wooden chair; the rolled hundred-dollar bill still crusted from last night, now skittering across the dresser until it disappears beneath it.

My head is in your lap. You’re rolling a joint on the arm of the sofa, unhurried the way you do everything. We’re drenched—sweat, sex, & Tempranillo— sunk into each other, uncovered, scandalous in all aspects considering how little we actually know one another. 

I’m holding a map of Spain, tracing the coastline with one finger. We could be anywhere. Your fingers work the bud apart, fluffing it into the paper with a precision I’ve come to admire. You’re good at this. You’re good at a lot of things.

My neck sticks to your thigh. It’s so unbearably hot in this place. The sun pressing itself against the windows, the curtains offering nothing in the way of defense. I tilt my head up at you, half out of heat-drunk desperation, half out of habit. From this angle you’re less handsome than usual, and I smile to myself anyway, because somehow I still want you. You lick the paper, catch me watching, and grin like you’ve caught a little girl spying on something she isn’t supposed to see.

You kiss my forehead. 

I wonder how many foreheads you’ve kissed before mine. Did you do it in the same way? Smile first, then lean in? Am I different? Am I naive? Or is this a game you play? I’m pretty good at games, so I don’t say anything of this; I always win.

“Let’s go to a beach.”

I sit up and lay the map across your knees, tap a small town further north. "Let's go here." You light the joint instead. "It's a beach town," I add, like that settles it.

You take a long drag and let it out slow, the smoke curling up into the heat already trapped against the ceiling. The room holds its own kind of clutter—vintage picture frames, chipping paint, a dusty gold mirror, and overgrown flower pots. I follow your eyes dragging across the room, only to stop at that old fan humming in the corner.  

Then you go quiet. I watch it happen. The charm draining out of your face, replaced by something distant, something I can't follow you into. Your breathing slows. I hold mine, counting the space between your breaths, trying to match it. Am I intruding? I wonder if you want me near.

The fan hums louder, inconsiderate of your mind consuming you; consuming me; won’t that fan just quit it? I’m listening for your heartbeat. I want to know what you’re thinking about.

Your voice cuts through the silence in the room. “Let’s get out of here.” You turn to me, and put the joint to my lips. “Tonight. Now.” You pull me off the sofa and snatch the map from my hands before I can stop you. 

“No—here.” You point to the tiny city up north, and take the joint back. You inhale once more, this time exhaling right into my face: the smoke, the heat; like something catching fire between us. There’s nowhere to put my face, except toward the scorching heat. I have nowhere to hide.  

You turn the old brass lock and open the door. I stand behind you, and for one second you're the only thing between me and the heat outside. You’re my shield from that first initial blow of intolerable heat. You take a step forward and it finds you, and then it finds me—a wall of air that locks eyes with you the way something unstable does, the kind of heat you can't hold a stare with for long. The heat doesn’t blink. The temperature is erratic; a mirage appearing right before me. Wavy lines float amongst this mass of hot air, distorting my vision as I reach for his arm for guidance. I walk outside into the shimmers of this heat haze, the blood rushing to my head, causing more jagged lines to form in front of me.

I step out into it laughing. You turn back to check on me, your face gold and sun-worn and, somehow, more alive for it. Vacations will do that to you. 

To feel such immense heat from the ground, humidity from the air, and tension from you; I would rewind time all the way back to that little neighborhood with the cobblestone streets, in that small apartment with the plants on the stairway; my wet bikini hanging on the balcony, an unfinished game of chess open on the bed next to the bottle of Don Julio we bribed that bartender for when all the liquor stores closed. I would repeat that entire day over again; even if it consisted of nothing but pours of tequila with lime, skinny joints, and insane heat. Because those moments of raw simplicity—you want to hold onto those. 

Madrid in August doesn't play fair. You take my hand and pull me in beside you, and I think—not for the first time—I’d go anywhere you asked me to. If I could, I'd rewind all the way back to that trip—the cobblestone street, the small apartment with plants crowding the stairwell, my wet bikini drying on the balcony rail, an unfinished chess game abandoned on the bed beside a bottle of Don Julio we'd bribed out of a bartender after the liquor stores closed. I'd live that whole day again exactly as it was: tequila and lime, thin joints, unreasonable heat. Because that kind of simplicity—raw, unplanned, a little reckless—is the kind you spend the rest of your life trying to get back to.