The Jamon
Sitting there, staring up at their bronzed faces – hers a tiny bit rouged on the cheeks, but beautiful nonetheless, and his still specked with sand – I realised my moment had come. All those acorns on the farm had paid off, for finally I was good enough to be at the same table as this exotic pair. At least that’s what they - these two young things - were to me, which is not how the Spanish would usually refer to the Brits.
I was more than content to listen to them chatting away in English. I expected them to mention Brexit, but they didn’t. That pleased me, because, through the kitchen window and in the supermarket, I’d heard people muttering about it the whole summer, and, tbh, it bored me. It didn’t affect me one bit and if this was to be my last day in the sun it was the last thing I wanted to hear about. Instead they spoke about how delicious the prawns were and sipped their Sangria. Occasionally one of them would shoot me a loving, almost longing, look and I could feel myself glistening with sweat under their gaze, it was embarrassing. But talk of the future would always divert their attention from the moment: Where would they eat tonight? Should they go to Italy next year? And when was series 3 of Stranger Things coming out?
Why couldn’t they live in the here and now, with me? Enjoy this moment for what it is: a lovely, long lunch. Couldn’t they, if only for today, just kick back and stare out at the sea? I was starting to get quite worked up about it when I saw her hand reach out toward me. She lit a cigarette instead, and he beckoned for the waiter. Then they patted their tummies and moaned about how full they were before retiring to the beach – all the while discussing what time they ought to leave and whether they should have martinis at sunset. I was no longer a part of their present, I was their past, destined for the bin, while they were firmly stuck fretting about the future. Wasting everyone’s time, both theirs and mine…
HER: Do you think we can get some more jamon tonight at dinner?