Wednesday. Lunch break. The day of the food market. The windswept passageways of the architectonic disaster also known as One New Change are flooded with hunters and gatherers. 15 minutes wait for a paella is not worth of my time. 15 minutes of waiting for anything is not worth of my time. The dog must have eaten his wristwatch; mine commands exact 12:46. Second date has ceased to be a romantic encounter for me and I start scripting a dump-fest in my head.
I spot him at the Portuguese stand being swallowed by the chorizo lovers. It would appear he has forgotten to sharpen his elbows today. He struggles to manoeuvre through the gaps; an elephant trapped in a glass labyrinth would be more elegant. 12:51 and I’m faced with a rumpled suit and sweat patches. His mouth is opening and closing so he must be vomiting an apology but I am distracted by the small drop trickling down his left cheek. It is almost at his chin. I don’t wait for it to fall.