Early morning. At the gates of the Alhambra: later, scorched tourists will loll toward coaches, another sight seen. Quiet, respecting the crisp morning air, only six people wait; for me, its that sense of privacy, a place barely vacated by ancient inhabitants – the fading of laughter, the swish of silk, the taste of intrigue.
From behind the scenes. I study a fellow early-bird. For the pulse alone, beating just perceptibly against the skin of her neck, she is worth attention; my concentration flows slowly along the collar bone, pouring into that perfect central hollow. Barely the width of a finger tip: my thumb tries out the tip of the index finger, rolling over the nail.
The gates open. I know exactly where I want to go and do not loiter – not even to admire the woman’s liquid, wet coal hair, so sleek it resembles the movement of muscle.
Of course, we glimpse one another: she is photographing details with a deliberate precision. The length of time taken to frame each shot distracts me from the murmuring echoes of Moorish princesses. Eventually, across the empty air of a cool interior, I wink – as much to snap out of my infatuation as to see what she will do.
A smile - a ‘God, you idiot’ roll of eyes. Off she walks. I am dismissed.
Blink. I’m not used to that.
Later, in the gardens, tucked away on my favourite bench, a click… Without turning, I know it’s her. Seating herself, she says, ‘I can’t believe you winked.’
I smile.