Will we be ready?

Imogen Heap and the smell of vanilla in my flat. Water on, tea to make. My feet still in my boots and my keys nearby. Like I might change my mind and go out after all. There are people to meet, friends to visit, but the winter air outside--so warm at midday--has cooled to a crisp bitter edge that sneaks through the cracks and crevices until my little apartment is cool and lonely.

I like lonely weekend nights at home. I like to step out on my balcón and peek up and down the street. I like to eavesdrop on the little groups of people smoking outside the bar below me. I like to spy on the handsome neighbor as he works on his computer across the way. I like the silence, the solitude, and the life throbbing below me.

After three, the bars on Palma close their grates halfway and only the regulars, the friends, and the possible shags are allowed to stay. The street quiets and darkens. Groups of friends stumble drunkenly past my balcony, not bothering to lower their voices or glance upwards. Teenage boys sing raucously while marching at the command of their hazing upperclassmen. University students find the bricked in stoop across the way and settle down to botellón with their joints and liter bottles of Mahou.

Looking down Acuerdo, above the streetlamps and solitary walkers, I can see the ambient glow of Gran Via and the angel's wings spreading protectively out above the rows of buildings. What a beautiful city. What a beautiful night.