2011
03.05
03.05
In the rustic open air Spanish
dining area, we watched the sunset
over the late summer sea, and a large
bottle of sangria – strong and dark
relaxing liquid. I poured myself
another glass. ‘You drink a lot.’
He said in a deep, calm unaccusing
indistinct North American accent. ‘We
all keep our ghosts hidden in different
ways.’ Said I, and looked at him
straight in his condemned face. He
turned to look out to the sea and
squeezed his eyes shut. He kept them
hidden his own way. We stared out to sea.