When I woke up, I was alone in bed. I called out to Joaquín, but there was no reply. I put my underpants on and walked the length of the apartment, but I was there alone. I sat on the avocado sofa in a panic, not knowing what I should do. I didn’t know if I should wait, or if I should get dressed and go. I sat there frozen in place, tears flowing from my eyes. I sat there until the door opened and Joaquín walked in with hot chocolate and churros.
Seeing me tremble, he sat next to me, took my face in his hands, and kissed my forehead, my eyes, my lips, and then I knew that I’d be safe as long as he was with me. I accepted his affection, even though the nagging guilt tugged on my heart. I knew that I needed to tell him who I really was and what I’d been.
I tried to be honest with him, but he stopped me and assured me that the past didn’t matter to him. “El pasado ya no importa. Mi ángel. Mi amor.”
Suddenly, my world changed. He’d called me his angel, his love, and the emotions I had bottled up, bubbled up because he loved me, not for my looks or the sex, but because he felt the love that I felt for him. I knew it. In my heart, I was certain of it.
From that day forward, my life became days of work, and evenings of phone conversations with Joaquín. Friday evenings out with friends, and nights together in our happy borrowed flat. Saturday mornings were for hot chocolate and churros, followed by long walks through whatever park we fancied. We’d visit El Prado Museum to admire the art, or take journeys though the rugged countryside. In his car, drives to Toledo, and walks down its impossibly narrow streets. Visits to El Escorial, the historical home of the king. I felt delightfully ordinary for the very first time in my life.