Nights in Toledo

The streets of Toledo are narrow and dark, especially on summer nights, when the humid air hangs about like a dark, steamy curtain. And with him, when all else is silent, his whispered words closed in around us, encircling the two of us in our own separate world, apart from the drama of our own daily lives and chaotic houses. I could just barely make out his eyes and brow in the darkness. He furrowed his brow as he gazed down at me, shoulders tensed, a vestige of this afternoon. I couldn’t see his eyes now, but I could imagine the worry in them, worry that never seemed to leave his light green eyes.

We were never meant to be a couple, him, the dark beautiful Spanish soccer player and me, a scholarly Russian Jew. We were opposite in both looks and personality, but somehow, we’d found a haven in each other.

And by night, my silky blonde hair looked like starlight next to his jet black locks. Laying in his arms, both looking up at the stars and down at our hair intertwined, I felt like I was watching reflections of each other. It was so easy, at moments like this, to believe that we were fatally together, a cosmic intervention. We were both, together like this, able to pretend like anything, including us, is possible.





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