Homeward Flight (Spain)

As he passes, the man with

three children and the tired wife

rolls his eyes at me.

Briefly, we connect.

His look says simply:

I have three children and a

tired wife.

We are in an airless airport,

at the end of a faded

departure hall which,

at one time, must have been the

new departure hall.

Dispirited, we slump on

purple plastic seats

while the walls sweat.

This is budget flying at

its budgetest.

Then I see her.

The walk gets me first.

A swaying, seductive sashay,

wrought from confidence,

accompanied by the perfectly

weighted metre of her

black heels.

Heads turn.

This is Woman - distilled.

I give her a name. María.

Or Natalia.

Or Lola.

Perhaps Sofía.

Or... Julieta.

Julieta who eats fresh, crusty

bread and olives, Julieta with the

dark sunglasses, Julieta whose hair

blows across her face, Julieta

who orders café con leche from

the waiter who arrives before she sits.

Julieta who sleeps in the

heat of the afternoon, under a fan,

while outside a dog barks and a

church bell rings and a guitar softly plays,

the sounds weaving into her

breathless dreams.

An electronic voice crackles,

an elbow digs into my ribs.

We join the cheerless queue,

and every wife looks at

every husband.