Drying the last drops of water from my face, I had aged twenty years in a week. Somehow the desert was responsible, though I lived in the oasis, the old city, far from the gnarled weeds and dust of the outlying nowhere, mere blocks away from fountains and tables of old men drinking gin and tonics. But I was foreign, an alien in the world to which I once belonged. The beggars seemed to get it.
Francisco would be calling in a few hours; 10 or 11, he'd said. It could be anytime, really. I'd stopped relying on clocks and had learned to rely on the idea of "cuando puedas". I chuckled in the mirror, thinking of his sense of time and his musings on women. I can't say I agreed or disagreed with him with any consistency; we both knew heartbreak and were disposed to changing our opinions often. Living amid life's contradictions will do that.
Just a slight breeze, that Sunday quiet, and the repose of a classical guitar in the corner were all that was required to ignite my own musings on love, though mine were more resigned, stripped of levity, worn down. I had aged twenty years in a week. Calm now and slow-moving, I was exhausted by recollections. But I was wiser now.
. . .
