Singing in the Rain
Having a cocktail while Jenny gets ready for the Opera
The streets of Gran Via shine wet. I left the Hotel Operatic a little after 6:00 pm., promising to be back by 7:30. I had walked only two minutes when a dark-haired woman wearing a short skirt, her eyes painted like a caricature artist might see her, working the street openly, whispered come this way with me.
In Madrid, as in Barcelona, prostitutes are an everyday aspect of city life. I stood panting in the rain as if panicked. These days I’m nothing more than a silly old bugger. I contemplated for a moment whether I could find the blood flow to produce an erection on such a wintry night. She flicked her head and waved her hand.
I giggled at myself.
I was desperate for a beer, not a hopeless shag.
I have not written for several days, not since Saturday. I wanted to wait until I could write more cheerfully.
Jenny is in the hotel room preparing to attend the opera tonight. I’m not highbrow, and to be quite honest, I don’t understand it. I couldn’t care about opera. A couple of beers, and truthfully, I won’t care about it. I’ll sit beside my wife, holding her hand, and listen for her sniffles when she moves.
