November 3rd, 1990

November 3rd, 1990

Benalmadena, Spain

Just returned from the most wonderful evening in old town Malaga where (thanks to mum’s bladder!) we found ourselves in a setting straight out of what I consider traditional Spain, with dark wood beamed ceiling and earth hued tiles.

Shortly after we took our seats, the floor show started and for the next two hours we watched, mesmerized by the flamenco dancers and accompanying guitarists, all of whom played in a way that made me feel like the music was vibrating through my entire body. On the train home, mum agreed that the combination of the music and flamenco dancers was indeed sensual!

Today was my kind of beach weather, starting out with intense heat followed by cool air that forced me to drape the beach towel across my legs.

“You’re quiet,” mum remarked. “Are you ok?”

“Hmmmmm,” I uttered. “I just love the sound of the sea, it reminds me of being at David’s.”

“It won’t be too long ‘til you see him again.”

“Doesn’t feel like that,” I sighed. “I have to be honest mum, sometimes it seems hopeless, the whole thing, it just feels…”

“Och, don’t say that.”

I moved the beach chair into an upright position and looked at mum. “I just need something to change.”

She nodded. “Has David said anything more to you about Germany?”

“I got the impression last time we spoke that it’s less of a possibility than before but who knows, his work stuff seems to change at the drop of a hat, which is why he gets so stressed out.”

“Fingers crossed,” mum said, crossing her fingers, “that he gets sent to Germany, that way you’ll see him a lot more.”

“If he doesn’t, I’ll rent out my house and commute to LA. I’m willing to, you know.”

“Aye, I can see you’re restless and ready for a change.”

“You know me all too well,” I muttered, sinking back into the beach chair.


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