![]() The neighbors had that meek kindness granted by years of misery and oblivion. At dawn she would silently vanish downstairs, leaving me to doze off during the day. Her cold skin and her misty breath were the only things that didn't burn during that scorching summer. ![]() One man's hell is another's paradise lost. Truth be told, three years in the slammer had obliterated my sense of smell and the issue of voices leaking through the walls wasn't exactly a novelty for me. The attic was the size of my former cell, a spare room perched over the endless roofworld of the old city. Good thing, because in prison you don't get either. Laura never asked for any references, personal or financial. The building creaked under my feet like an old ship. ![]() I followed her upstairs, almost feeling my way in the darkness. The building was one of those vertical mausoleums that haunt the old town, a labyrinth of gargoyles and patch-ups at the top of which you could still make out 1886 somewhere beneath the layer of soot. I had been sleeping on a bench in a nearby square when I was awakened by the brush of her lips. ![]() ![]() I met her on a July night when the skies blanketing Barcelona sizzled with steam and desperation. All I knew about Laura was that she worked part-time at the offices of the landord on the first floor, and that she kissed like a tango. I never told anybody, but getting that apartment was nothing short of a miracle. ![]()
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