Heavy as iron.
Wheels extend. The plane groans. Barcelona spreads beneath us. I picture a geometry of red roofs and crookedstreets.
Santiago’s hand is millimeters from mine, but he doesn’t reach for me. Our eyes are locked on each other, connecting us more intimately than a touch.
Tires kiss the runway with a breathy shudder. As we pull into the gate, the usual chorus begins: zippers, texts, grievances, foreign languages colliding in one echoing hall of human impatience.
We unbuckle. He slips into his jacket gracefully as I anxiously gather my tote, tuck my phone into the side pocket of my backpack, and pat the passport I checked three times already.
We stand when our row empties into the aisle. Shoulder to shoulder in a human river with no patience. He turns, speaks low enough so the words skim my skin.
“Rosa.”
I look up.
“There’s a small place in El Born.” His mouth curves into a quirk. “Can Cisa. It’s a quaint wine bar with delicious bites. Meet me there, Wednesday night.”
Breath sticks halfway to my lungs. Not an assumption. Not an order.
An opening.
“You’re inviting me on a date?”
“If you’re up for it. Good wine. Conversation we didn’t finish.”
I search his face for performance, find none. Only calm certainty, not entitlement.
“Two nights from now,” I state the obvious.
“Yes. Two nights.” He echoes it like a promise. “My business should be concluded by then.”
We move again. The line funnels toward the jet bridge. At the top of the ramp he steps aside, lets me pass. His hand hovers near my back. Not touching. Warm all the same.
“Welcome back,” he gestures.
Two words, and the hall expands, then narrows to a single point dead center in my chest.
“I’d walk with you,” he explains as we step inside the airport, “but I have to dash. My flat’s not far, and I’ve got a meeting across town. If I don’t shower and change first, they may not want to be in a room with me.”
A small laugh escapes me. “Go, then. I’ll be fine. I wouldn’t want to ruin your schedule.”
“Rosa,” he chuckles. “You couldn’t ruin anything.”
He steps back to let another passenger pass, eyes lingering on mine for one last beat. “Wednesday,” he reminds me. “Can Cisa.”
“Wednesday,” I echo.
And then, he’s gone.
The airport swallows me. Fluorescent glare, polished floors, a river of people dragging their lives behind them on four wheels. Spanish spills over English, Catalan threads between both. Signs point in every direction at once.
I follow the stream toward passport control. The line snakes under an oversize photograph of a beach. Inching forward, I study the faces around me. I’m oddly invisible here on my own. The immigration officer barely glances up before thumping a stamp on my passport.
Baggage claim blooms into a mishmash of carousels. Belts clank to life. Screens flash flight numbers in bold blue. A toddler wails. A woman argues with no one, or everyone, about a missing bag.
As I wait for my suitcase, my phone buzzes with messages in the family text sent during the flight.
Mamí: Mija, send a text when you land. Eat. Sleep. No work.
