5.00pm: Las Canteras Beach – Isleta – Las Palmas
Carlos scooped up the change from the cuenta of the last of the late lunchtime diners. It would be quiet now until nine o’clock. This
was the part of the day he liked best. A
little cooler, it was when the half- board tourists would stroll along the paseo before having their hotel suppers
at an hour unthinkable to the Spanish.
He looked beyond the stone benches - where a guitarist
had played softly for the last half hour - along the curve of the bay towards the volcanic hills behind. The sun would set soon.
His attention, though, was drawn to a man and a woman leaning
against the railings above the beach.
They were kissing with the intensity of new lovers, cleaving to each other,
oblivious of a girl who skimmed past them on roller blades, swerving to avoid a
bronzed, silver haired couple in matching white trousers and t-shirts.
The lovers were in
their late thirties, he judged - his age.
She was a little plump in tight pink tracksuit trousers and her blond
hair revealed dark roots; his hair was thinning from the front and he wore
sunglasses which reflected the determination in her face. Their kissing and clutching and stroking had
a desperate quality to it – as if by holding each other so closely love would
not slip this time. Little lower than
angels, mused Carlos.
He waved to a fellow camarero,
turned towards the kitchen and once again thought of his wife in Cuba.
© Tim Scott
All rights reserved
No comments:
Post a Comment