I didn’t know where I was, but that didn’t matter. I was with Joaquín, and he was the one person I knew I could trust. All around us, tall, handsome buildings anchored sidewalks and rows of trees.
He had been polite—sweet, even—when asking if I’d like to spend the night with him. He bashfully said that his heart wished for nothing else, as we walked to his car.
I felt special because this was the first time I’d ever been asked. I felt respected, at last.
The apartment was small, but the boxy avocado sofa with the tangerine and lemon chairs were artfully placed. “El piso de mis tíos,” Joaquin said, explaining that it belonged to his aunt and uncle who only visited Madrid from time to time.
That night, I allowed myself to be led by Joaquín. I wanted to be everything that he wanted me to be. I reacted to his touch and caress as if it had been my very first time. I relaxed and let his emotions nurture me, and returned his affections without hesitation or regrets.
We drank the wine and ate the bread until both of our souls melded into one flesh, and we fell asleep in each other’s arms.