She usually comes to the beachfront bar during Sunday brunch. I first thought she was English like most of the other patrons, mostly retirees, aka pensioners as Euros say, but she always spoke to the bartenders in Spanish- usually Ignacio, or Eileen, an aspiring American writer/journalist like myself, working behind the counter.
Though the place always served a lavish English full breakfast and local tapas type finger food, she always orders the same: croissant, side of fruit, nuts or cheese, a bottle of white wine- half of which she pours into a wine sack before leaving. A pleasant looking woman in her mid-50s, ruddy red cheeks, smiling face framed by salt and pepper close-cut perky bangs, her greyish blue eyes under floppy hat behind round pop art deco sunglasses define a cute, charming broad shouldered woman, five foot eight or so, obviously overweight, yet not morbidly so.
"Ciao, Ig-gy."
"Adios, Amalie," replies Iggy.
As she fills her wine sack, fingering through paper bills to settle her tab, she glares at a group of three teenagers acting quite cruelly toward her. They seems to be sharing a booth with grandparents enjoying their stay on holiday. Rude stares, eye rolls, giggles.
Her eyes above the lowered sunglasses meet mine as the grandparents gasp, trying to hush the youngsters.
I crane my neck toward the corner of the bar, "Put her on my tab Iggy, por favor."
She ambles away from her bar seat, smiling slightly with a finger pressed aside her sunglasses, mumbling , "Muchas gracias, señor."
