It’s hot in Madrid. They are quiet days at nap time. The fan spins from side to side in a futile attempt to cool me down. It’s 5 pm. He is always very punctual, I open the window and when I sit on the sofa, I don’t have to wait, it already begins to enter through the window.
The sound of the piano mixes with the fan and the notes spread throughout my floor. I always imagine his hands with long fingers. The sound is jazz and I remember that time at the festival, it was also in summer but many years ago.
It was one of those nights when I liked to go out for a walk alone. I went down to the river and started down through the park that surrounds it. It was one of those fiery sunsets in the clouds that Madrid has.
I found myself with a small stage and musicians playing, playing Jazz. People had sat on the grass to listen. I sat down. Before long, a group of boys arrived and sat near to me. One of them started looking at me, those things make me nervous, but the music had something relaxing that made me feel good.
The boy approached me and asked for a fire. Then he sat next to me, so close that our knees were touching. He told me his name, I said mine, we smiled at each other, and then we just stood there together listening to the music. When the concert finished we looked at each other for a second and without thinking he kissed me, it was just one kiss, but a very long kiss surrounded by applause. Then we parted ways.
His name was Santiago. It’s the only thing I know about him. Sometimes when I hear my neighbor’s pianist I imagine that the hands that touch it are the hands of Santiago.