Alicante

Despite its being but late March, the sun’s brilliant rays bounced off the short harbor waves in shocking directions.  Without sunglasses, sometimes it was painful.

Nonetheless I reveled in the morning. The pension where I had slept last night was clean, the hostess friendly, and it was near the beach. Moreover it was fairly cheap, the number one priority on my list for an accomodation.

The past 2 weeks had been terribly exciting. I thought of Françoise and her delights. Then I smugly smiled to myself as I relished the long ride down the highway with the two female teachers, which ended with a debauched night with Nicole in Bordeaux.

Twenty years old. Almost penniless. And near total freedom.

Wishing not for anything more … only encores of the same. I imagine that must be the definition of happiness. Extreme contentment at the very least.

I saw her in the distance. Slowly, ever so slowly, she neared, steadily walking along the beach towards me. As the distance declined, I could see she was wearing white … some kind of peasant dress, and a big, floppy hat, too. Sandals, and a donkey bag slung from a shoulder. She stopped. Looked in my direction. Then continued approaching.

I was hypnotized. As she got closer, I wondered if she would stop. Would she speak to me? My Spanish was almost non-existent, but I was up for trying. Maybe she would want to practise English. I hadn’t heard a word of English in over a week I suddenly realized.

She did stop. “Hello”, she said.

I couldn’t put my finger on the accent. It was ever so slight. And not Spanish.

Her baby blues were breathtaking.

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And Life Goes On

I texted her to ask about a city she recently visited. I will be there shortly.

Almost immediately she texted back. I was surprised. It usually is not so quick.

She answered my questions, and we had a brief chat about my upcoming trip. And then about some other relatively unimportant things. A chat just like any other chat “friends” would have.

It hurt.

“You ok?” I asked. It had been some time since we have communicated.

“Yes. I’m good. Just busy. It was so nice to hear from you today” she wrote.

“I miss you, Marty. xx”

I could only stare at the words. Wistfully. Heart in throat. Bleeding.

“I miss you every day” I typed.

There was no need for her to know about the tears that were suddenly welling in my eyes.

The Feist

She is tall. Her hair is dark, just above shoulder length. Blue-gray eyes.

Lithe and leggy. Small breasted.

Very firm ass. I’ve watched it move around closely. She has a highly understated sensuality. The way she grabs her hair to make a pony tail …

She’s also used to being in charge. I can tell. But for some reason, she is quick to back off that with me. Needless to say, I’m hooked. Well not yet, actually. More like the bait is out and I’m circling it.

And she has an uncanny resemblance to the singer Feist.

I wonder if she can sing …