Pingo

 There was a photo of her the night that I had left the country. She was out with her friends, drunk, and she looked so sad. Her eyes had shed tears. It tore at my heart. The night before, our last night together, we had gone for dinner and then to a festival in the park next to my apartment. Everything had been removed from my apartment, she was there with me when that happened, except for my bed. We spent the night together… it was the best sex we’d had. In the morning the taxi came to drive me to the airport and as it drove down that Spanish street, I saw her walking behind us, she looked devastated. I felt heartbroken for her and for me. When I landed in the USA the next morning I told my taxi driver about her and he said ‘oh, man, you should have married her and brought her with you, you can’t let a Spanish lady like that go.’ 

            That was seven years ago. We are still friends and hope to see each other again in the new year when I visit Spain. She is from Galicia, and showed me all of the wonderful, hidden Galician restaurants of Madrid. There was a wonderful balance, she was in a band and so was I, so we understood the need to write and to rehearse and to perform. She watched my band and I watched hers… I don’t think that either of us really appreciated the style of the other’s band, but it felt fantastic to support and to be supported… and to be understood. It was a wonderful time and I never appreciated it enough. I never appreciated her enough. There have been many moments when I have thought that my taxi driver was correct. 


            She is one of the good people… humble and genuine, kind and caring. 





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