Several days had passed when the pair finally met again. Each had come casually dressed, their steps slow and measured as they approached from opposite directions. They cautiously waved, converging on the shaded corner of a stucco apartment building where a stained-glass peacock hung in the first floor window. After a courteous shy hello, they ambled through the city side-by-side, talking about all that was innocuous: the weather, the sun, the sky. Maria adjusted the shoulder strap of her navy blue tank top, near where her slender neck met her pronounced clavicle. Hunt stumbled on a crack in the pavement, bumping into her. Before he could apologize, she wrapped her arm around his elbow. They leaned close as they traveled, eventually rounding another bend and crossing under the archway to Lucille’s restaurant.

The courtyard was empty, the tables waiting. Hunt offered Maria the chair shaded by vivacious fronds and she dragged the chair around the table, setting it next to his in the sun. Barcelona’s strong summer heat flooded the square, warming the thick walls and stone floor. Pica pica birds descended from the treetops and hopped around searching for scraps. Lucille arrived wearing her spotted owl apron. She hurried to her kitchen after taking their orders.

Soon the pair fed on an assortment of tapas. Fuet sausage in white casing, red tomatoes slick with olive oil, seared scallops topped with jamón, all painted a colorful bounty of food. They dabbed local honey on bread and drank chilled cava to wash the meal down. The sparkling wine’s citrus notes paired particularly well with the fresh seafood.

“Do you always woo girls on beaches with such poetry?” Maria asked.

“Not always,” Hunt replied. “But I’m getting better at it.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” she smirked before sipping cava from her long thin glass. “So tell me, other than practicing poetry, what is it that you like to do?”