We wait. Some patiently, some not so. The lights are dim, the conversation muted compared to a night full of dining chatter, Spanish yells and bell ringing.
There is a storm coming.
I feel it, the pressure behind my forehead building, the air becoming heavier, thicker somehow. The dark clouds roll into view, high and menacing far above. One by one the stars are blotted out, the night sky becoming velvety and impenetrable. Everything is affected by this tension, this taut pressure. Inside the low Spanish homes the dogs are strangely quiet. The narrow streets are abandoned, the air still and waiting. Within the next hour or so it will begin.
Some days I feel tired right down to my bones. The clock ticks, the fan spins, my eyelids become heavier and heavier. I can hardly keep my eyes open. I just want to sleep and sleep, climb into bed for a week or more. Perhaps then I will have some energy, muster up some zest for life. I know it’s in there somewhere.
Maybe it’s the heat, the still air, lazy flies. Men sit in doorways, crouching and shirtless, cigarettes hanging from their chapped lips, glazed eyes and lined faces, creased from listlessly following hundreds of passing footsteps. They seem tired too, almost hazed. Maybe it comes from a lifetime of this heat, with salty sweat and dry beer the only moisture in sight.