Tuesday 200 — one hundred twenty-five
You'd come for tapas and tops, not necessarily in that order.
What in Cher’s name is a Tuesday 200?
New year. New country. New flat — temporary, but safe.
New spicy Spaniards with vowel-laden handles filling your apps.
So clandestine. He with the restraining order remains an ocean away, completely unaware.
Jaume, your sexy landlord, left sunglasses on the nightstand. Bienvenidos, the card said. Un regalito, with a heart containing a smiley face.
Small world — restraining order guy used to doodle something similar.
You head to the terrace for sunshine and swiping. You’re here for tapas and tops, order irrelevant.
Midday sun blazing bright, you squint to make out the Sagrada Familia’s unfinished spires, then focus on tioduro_bcn’s profile through the glare — smooth, dragon-tatted chest, ripped, hung.
Hidden shallows.
You bounce inside for the shades and suncream.
Settling into the IKEA chaise, you lotion up, don the RayBans, re-click the profile.
The screen fuzzes. Tioduro isn’t tatted anymore.
Sunscreen on the lenses? You remove them, tats reappear. Wipe the glasses with your tee and put them back on.
Tio’s neither inked nor Iberian.
A message: “You know what we have in common with that church?”
You type “WTF.”
Readjusting the specs, you watch blinking dots.
Daddy’s dragon’s now your ex’s hairy chest.
“We’re not finished.”
Oh fuck.
👏👏👏