I remember.

A small day on the Spanish countryside, a bus ride at the edge of the cliffs. You hated the turns, the towns—Coín, Ojén, Monda—cheap and littered with dog shit, sunlight filtering behind the mountains. The mornings were hot, the days gliding always ahead of us.

Surely I remember—

The hurrying radio and its flamenco, the walk between the broken houses before the townsquare, the locked gate of the perverse old man before the hills, the fights, the dance we never had, the fans twirling through the night, the lovebites, the cats atop the closed bar, the shape of your lips when you say El Gato Negro: love is when you call me a name that only you know.