I didn"t sleep well. Gloria took up the middle of the bed as is her wont. She"s still flat on her back with her arms spread wide, her right hand grasping one of her rabbit"s ears. I was left with a sliver of the mattress. I spent much of the night lying on my side staring into the dark, reminiscing.
I remembered the first time I met Celestino, climbing down the stairs to the subterranean art gallery in a little plaza in Haría, admiring the artworks on display, thinking I might buy something small, approaching the man standing by a small desk with my inquiry to find he was the artist. We chatted. He was amused by my dreadful Spanish. There was a spark. We both felt it. I hadn"t wanted to leave. I must have stayed down there a whole hour.
Over dinner that evening, I discovered him to be a
