Spring in Seville – Part 1: Azahar

The orange trees were in blossom, and the whole of Seville smelled of it.

Carmen walked down the narrow street beside the river with her arm through her husband's, breathing deeply. Nineteen years since they had met here, two students arguing about a map outside a bar. Now she was forty-two, a teacher and a mother, and she was nervous.

"You are quiet," said Pablo.

"I am remembering."

"The map?"

"You said the river was on the left."

"It was on the left."

"It was on the right," said Carmen. "You were insufferable."

"And you married me anyway."

"It was a moment of weakness."

He laughed, a deep, familiar sound, and squeezed her arm. He was forty-five, greying at the temples, with the same wide eyes she had fallen for in a crowded square. They had not been alone together for more than an evening since the youngest was born.

The hotel was small, in the old quarter, with a courtyard fountain and blue tiles. They had a room with a balcony over the street. Carmen stood at the window while Pablo unpacked, and watched the evening gather: lamps lit one by one, a guitar from somewhere, the blossom-scent drifting up.

"Can I ask you something?" she said.

"Yes."

"Do you still choose me? I mean, would you do it all again?"

He crossed the room and took her hands. "Every day," he said. "Including the days I am too tired to say it."

Her eyes went bright. "Green?" she said, softly, the old word from their first night.

"Green," said Pablo, quietly. "Very green. Let us go and eat something terrible and wonderful."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Midnight Streets.