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There’s a breakfast tray near my feet. It’s decorated with a paper flower. I take it and smile. He kisses me.
At noon, after making love, he looks so much better that I propose we go to the Madrid flea market, a place that, it turns out, Eric has never visited.
“I’m first at something,” I say, which makes him laugh. “The first person to take you to the flea market!”
When we get off the Metro at La Latina, he is quite surprised. Seeing so many different kinds of people startles him. He insists on buying me some silver pendants from a little stand. In return, I buy him a T-shirt that says “The Best of Madrid,” from another stand. I make him take his shirt off right there in the middle of the flea market and put it on. We take some pictures with my cell, and I keep them as if they were treasures.
Delighted, we stroll hand in hand like any other couple until we get to a stand selling hippie lamps. He wants to buy two to take back with him to Germany, a souvenir to remember his visit to the flea market. He makes me choose, and I pick out two lilac-colored ones. After he pays, he tells me one is for me. That touches me. We will each have one in our homes, and whenever we look at them, we’ll remember.
After that, we walk around the flea market for a while until Eric refuses to take another step. People accidentally bump up against my arm, and he doesn’t want anyone to hurt me. Finally, so I don’t have to listen to him anymore, I agree, and we leave in a taxi.
I propose a couple of different restaurants; he says he wants whichever is the coziest. We peek inside three places, but none of them seems cozy enough. In the end, I settle for buying a couple of slices of Spanish omelet, and we sit on a soft lawn to eat while we laugh and check out our pretty lamps.
“They’re beautiful—I love them.”
“Yes, they’re very pretty. Do you have lipstick in your bag?”
“What kind of lipstick do you mean? I’ll remind you we’re in a public park, and I’d rather not end up in jail on public-indecency charges.”
He laughs heartily, which lifts my soul, and he responds to my laughter with an impulsive kiss on the tip of my nose.
“I’m not referring to what you’re thinking, you kink queen. I mean a simple lipstick. Do you have one on you?”
I pull out a small makeup bag and show him.
“Do your lips,” he says.
Surprised, I start, then stop halfway.
“Wait, why am I doing this?”
“Just do it.”
“No, I want to know why first.”
He shrugs and sighs.
“I want your lips on my lampshade, right next to your name.”
“Wow, I love the idea! But then I want the same on mine.”
“You want me to put lipstick on?”
“Yes!” I respond mischievously.
“No way!”
“C’mon,” I protest. “I want your lips on my lampshade, next to your name, too.”
For a few minutes, we joke around. We laugh. But in the end, we both do our lips and plant them on our respective lampshades. We wipe the red off our mouths with tissues, and Eric hands me a pen. Under my lips, I write,Judith. And under his, he writes,Eric.
“Whenever I look at it in Germany, I’ll think of you.”
This makes me sad. He’ll return to Germany in his private jet and be far away from me. I miss him already, and he hasn’t even left yet.
When we finish lunch, I lie back on the grass, and so does he.
“Will you come back?” I ask.