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Three in Barcelona By Tim Boisvert Three small blurbs written on November 29, 2004, in Barcelona Fidel y Maria They sleep in separate rooms now, he on a small bed in his study, she in the next room over. At 67 they are nearly out of love. Forty-one years spent loving the children and mildly caring for each other reached a peak when their youngest left home three months ago. It wasn't just the aching bones that led them to stop making love to each other all those years ago, nor the lack of opportunity. It was the disappearance of affection, the death of the spark in their eyes. His name means "faithful," and that he has been. He stifled his virility out of respect for her, and out of a commitment to a higher law. He would never think of spending his energy on other women, nor would they have him at this age. He'll live another 20 years without stimulation nor satisfaction, but the last remnant of a desire for those expressions will die long before then. They might be dead already. As for her, well, she is the one who started it. She fell in love with him first and she fell out of love first. She spent herself raising four fine children and assisting with ten grandchildren. They became her new love. When the juices stopped flowing, it was their affection she relied on. And she has also been faithful, but after a time, being faithful to a dead relationship doesn't amount to much. And so, tonight, and every other night, they will say their goodbyes for the day. There will be no kisses nor hugs, no thanks offered for a day shared together. And they will certainly not look each other in the eyes before they go their separate ways. (Barceloneta beach, mid-afternoon) No Title #2 The last train out of Catalunya left 30 minutes ago, never to return. All air travel in and out of the area has been permanently re-routed. Taxi drivers stayed home today, and guards have been placed at the borders. The only remaining options for escape are to windsurf to Mallorca or to dig a tunnel to Portugal. The rest of us will have to stay here forever, spending our days eating pastries and sipping coffee, and forgetting ourselves when the sun goes down. (Barceloneta beach, late-afternoon) Fishes in the Sea There are fishes in the sea, and maybe one's for me. And there're crab and shrimp, and lobster too, and sea urchins waiting for the tide. There are cucumbers and sea turtles, anenome and starfish (which aren't really fish). There are sharks and tuna and whales, all swimming together like friends. Except when the sharks eat them all. Then the sharks are lonely, so they let more of their diverse crowd of non-shark friends move back in. And that goes on for a while, until the shark gets hungry again. Then the boats drive by with their bottoms in the water, and the fish and lobster and shrimp and sharks take a break from their busy lives to play Pictionary on the bottom of the boats with the barnacles. So you see, my friend, there are many fish in the sea, as well as other critters, and they're all very literate and versed in the popular party-game drawing techniques, as well as other sundry sea-worthy communication styles. Yes, there are fishes in the sea, many of them, and maybe one's for me. (Barcelona subway line 3, 9:50 PM) Back to Tim's Short Stories |