Kathy Peck and Nancy Kirkwood were returning to America. The two women exchanged ambiguous farewells with Paul Lowery on the train into Barcelona from the beach.
Halting as their public separation had been, Nancy's earlier private leave-taking had been absolutely clear. Nurse-minding Kathy for the week, Nancy had spent little time alone with him. Through recompense sex she erased absence and distance.
The last morning, likely while Kathy showered, Nancy tapped on his hotel door. Bound in nothing other than a large fluffy white bath towel which further darkened her complexion, she stole into his room. The door closing and her towel falling happened simultaneously. Nancy's lean nakedness stretched his boxers. A condition she quickly eased by yanking them around his ankles. On her rise Nancy gave his tool a sloppy tongue swipe.
With so much sleight of fabric, Lowery missed the foil package in her fingers. Deftly opened, latex adroitly affixed, she pulled him to the nearest wall. There, wet and eager, copper eyes burning, Nancy flattened while he angled then rammed up.
The impromptu nature, its time constraint, cleared his mind. One shaky leg steadied her, the other corded around his thigh. Lowery pinned her between his forearms. Nancy's arms seized him from shoulders to waist.
Lowery pumped and grunted. She panted after his every heavenward jolt. When he came she trembled enough to shake him.
The two women de-boarded at El Prat, a station whose trunk spurred into the airport. Lowery continued straight towards the Catalonian hub.
Their Costa Garraf week had clarified the major dilemma: though under duress, Kathy, a pro golfer, would "out" herself. Forthright admission ought prevent further drama. As other celebrity disclosures had amply proven, evasions, half-truths, prolonged indignation simply fed the monster and worsened the eventual revelation.
Quick confirmation ended speculation whose burden tarnished the newsmaker.
That decided, they made a small sour game of sponsors who might drop her immediately against those who'd gauge the resulting winds. The least they could've done for a shining image of All-American womanhood.
Hetero as could be, the idea of someone having to publicly declare her or his orientation disgusted Lowery. He hoped Kathy presented herself in a manner that dissuaded the more ravenous media from demanding greater cringe-inducing answers.
Kathy and Nancy left Spain at an opportune time. A inversion blew through. One that not only purified the air, but also dropped temperatures. While he welcomed the brisk weather, the Spaniards behaved as if it portended a second Ice Age. Shawls he understood -- but scarves and coats!? In August!? On the Mediterranean!?
Either Lowery had been so preoccupied or victimized by lousy signage because he wound up at the wrong terminal. The terminus for France-bound or -arriving trains. Off the carriage he stepped onto a dogshit spackled platform.
Lowery stayed just long enough to appreciate the soaring structure's roof, direct himself properly, then board the right train. He was extra vigilant during his retrace. This train creaked through stations whose names were obscured by darkness, cluttered or poorly placed signs. Nor did it help announcements were mumbled in Catalan. Only a hunch let him off at his transfer.
Unlike the commuter line, the metro was well-lighted and clearly marked. A short time later Lowery stood outside the Fontana stop. Narrow streets lent mid-range buildings a "canyon effect." Before walking several blocks to his hotel he scoured the neighborhood.
Late afternoon around the metro entrance certainly was lively. Youth predominated. Wiry vulpine boys wearing the latest slacker fashions hung in hungry clots while their bold-eyed, pliant-lipped female contemporaries filled benches or heated up the general vicinity by slowly ambling up and down the same pavement in trios and quartets. The girls were remarkably similar. Each edgy face had chestnut or inky hair piled atop it. Proud, unspoiled breasts heaved beneath cardigans or jackets. Low-rise denims squeezed nicely flaring hips. Legs ended in ornate leather lethal-toed arching heels.
A few abuelitas rounded out the assembly, looking just as out of place as himself. Beyond the metro itself a highly-selective bookstore, a tabac, pizza parlor and bars formed the secondary main congregating points.
Rooted as he wished to have remained, Lowery pushed off. His hotel shouldered inconspicuously on the Via Augusta. Its exterior began as at Art Nouveau but settled into Modernisme.
In the compact gilded lobby florid Britons exited leaving two swarthy desk clerks behind the reception desk. Cleaned up as they were, the pair reminded Lowery of field hands recently stuffed into new blue blazers.
He spoke to the crabbier of them in Castilian. Seeing Lowery's passport the man replied in clipped business English.
Basic information gleaned, Lowery rode to his ninth-floor room. The elevator opened onto a pristine floor. Half of it at least. The other half underwent renovation. Despite thick plastic partitions resins, sawdust and paint tinged nostrils.
His windows looked north into apartments. If he hoped spying some young thing walking around in her sweet altogether, Lowery would be luckless. Those windows only revealed thoroughly domesticated couples or retirees leading numbing routines.
Lowery grabbed his camera then hit the bricks. The metro funneled him downtown. After deciphering and navigating the below ground tangle, Lowery climbed to street level Placa Catalunya.
Topside proved a bigger louder version of Fontana. Except with fountains, gardens and statuary added. Early evening now, Lowery intended snapping several pictures while he still had decent natural light. Not for himself or memory. For his female colleagues in Colorado. They were suckers for this stuff.
Once done he'd tour La Rambla, the city's main promenade, to the harbor. Along the way he'd have some cold ones while determining which of its "world renown attractions" were worth his tourist's attentions.
Lowery saved that stroll for another day. During his photographic obligation of a lavender flower bed perfectly offset by an oversized fountain and gray building, he saw the woman sitting on the garden's edge. She sat alone. A cigarette dangled on her lower lip, while a backpack rested at her feet. He decided to center the frame with her. Through his viewfinder she came into better focus.
This woman, who he guessed in her resilient mid 30s, returned his lens stare. Most female subjects would've turned away or covered their faces or gestured rudely. She only expelled cigarette smoke.
Lowery lingered before and after snapping the picture. Gradually she reminded him of a girl he'd known in Connecticut. One of the approachable ones in high school. Miriam Trescuervos. Much older than the Miriam he remembered, heavier and sterner, too. But nearly 30 years apart, they shared the same lupine features emphasized by thick lips.
Hadn't Miriam's people come from Spain? She was only first or second generation American. It wasn't too hard believing she'd retain foreign characteristics. Photo on film, Lowery walked towards the woman.
Aware of his attention, she dropped the cigarette and crushed it beneath an engineer boot. On closer inspection differences became apparent. His subject was harder than Miriam could ever have been. Her expression was leaden where Miriam's had shone. The girl in his high school memory had a long thick mass of gleaming black hair. This woman did little for her short dull curls.
