“…” I could never recall the sound of his voice. It was the summer of 1982 in Barcelona. I was very young back then. Lost in the darkness. After graduating from college in Tokyo, I made the decision to live in Barcelona for six months to see the world and find myself, hoping I could get away from all the chaos and pressure of entering adulthood. But since I started this journey two months ago, my days were painted in darker colors. I hated myself for lying to my mother every time we talked on the phone, telling her I was doing just fine and there was no need to worry. I missed my mother, family, and friends back home so much that I sobbed every night, despite knowing no one was there to comfort me. Then, I would pick up my pencil and write down whatever was bothering me or wandering around my head. My journal never judged me; it was filled with truth that made me want to look out for the better days ahead.
I lived in a small 500-square-foot apartment on Caller del Tallers. The landlord, who everyone called Abuela, once told me the apartment was 700 years old. The rusted gold apartment number “202” hung on the door, swinging every time I opened it. The floors made a squeaky noise and the rotten ceiling…The place definitely needed some repairs, but I loved how antique it was, filled with people’s memories for centuries. I spent most of my time on the balcony, where the previous resident left a brand-new white garden chair and a table, assuming she or he might have wanted to match the broken, dusty tile floor that is no longer white. The sets of white shimmery chairs and a table could hardly fit in the tiny balcony, but I squeezed a monstera plant in the corner just to add a piece of my taste. The street in front of my room was always crowded with tourists and locals. An old man leaning against a wall, judging everyone who passed by with a grumpy face. A group of tourists taking pictures of everything they see. A mother pushing a stroller yelling at a girl and a boy chasing a stray cat. A couple kissing in the middle of the street, unbothered by a post officer ringing his bicycle bell. I sat on the balcony, watched those people pass by for hours with a cup of coffee in my hand, and played ABBA’s newest album on the record player; however, no lyric stayed in my head. Instead, my mind was busy wondering whether those people had a happy life or not. Of course, it was impossible for anyone to know just by their appearance, or conversation, or laughter. Even if I were able to find out, what was I going to do? Award them by giving out some kind of “The Happiest Person Alive” certificate? Or offer an unhappy person some consolation? At that time, I was eager to know the definition of a happy life after everything that happened in Tokyo. Abuela was the only person I could confidently say had a happy life. Or it seemed one…
“¡Hola Abuela!” I leaned out of the balcony fence and waved at her. Abuela was always out on the street, either sweeping the front door or chitchatting with her old friends and sometimes with good-looking gentlemen. Her handmade pink and white daisy pattern apron shone under the bright Mediterranean sunshine. I could always find her from miles away. “Buenos tardes! How was school today? I baked a strawberry pie this morning, would you like some? Actually, come downstairs, and let’s eat together at my place over some coffee.” Without waiting for my reply, she rushed into the front gate with a broom in her hand. Making a creaky noise, she pushed the heavy black gate and waited for me by the spiral staircase.
“Oh, you look fabulous in those dresses, darling! Are they new? You need to take me shopping sometimes.”
“Thank you, Abuela! I know a great clothing shop that just opened on the main street. I can take you over the weekend if you like.”
“That’s very sweet of you. Now grab my broom for a second. I need to find my key.” Abuela was the most kind-hearted person I knew. She treated me like a real granddaughter and never made me feel lonely in this big city. On the weekends, she would invite me to have her delicious home-cooked Spanish dishes, such as Tomate con pan, Tortilla de patatas, Paella and some more. There were two rooms on the ground floor. Abuela lived in Room 101, and she used the next door as her storeroom, which she hadn’t entered for years after her husband accidentally dropped the key in the drain.
“Make yourself comfortable, darling. You know where the mugs are, right? Bring them to the kitchen, please. I’ll start reheating the pies right away!”
“Of course, Abuela,” I said, reaching for two mugs with Peter Rabbit on them. Seeing her in the afternoon has become our daily routine quite recently. Abuela did not have a family. Her husband passed away a few weeks before I knocked on her door to sign the apartment contract. Her house was filled with two sets for everything: two slippers, two dressers, and two armchairs facing each other, of which one was no longer in use. Sometimes, when I was exhausted from a long day at school, I wished I could go straight to my room and jump on my bed to take a long afternoon nap. But no one could possibly say no to her kind offer after hearing Abuela’s calming voice and seeing her sweet smile with some wrinkles around her eyes.
“Oh great. I am out of coffee beans…would you mind going to buy a pack of beans at the coffee shop for me?”
“What kind of beans? Colombia? Arabica? Robusta…?”
“Actually, can you just go buy two cups of coffee at the coffee house? I want you to taste my pie as soon as possible. I’m sure you’re going to love this one! Take the coins from the jar on the shelf right behind you.”
“I’ll be right back, Abuela. Don’t forget to put extra whipped cream on my pie!” I grabbed the keys and got out of the apartment.
Just a few blocks down the street, there was a small, long-established coffee shop next to a barber who was famous for the worst haircuts in the whole city. Before I headed out to my language school, I always had a cup of cappuccino at the terrace seat while watching people come out of the barbershop with discontented looks or even crying after their haircuts had gone wrong. The coffee shop was especially crowded that day. The seats were full, and people were lined up outside, blocking the entrance of the barbershop. As I entered the store, something felt different than usual. The smell, the sound, the atmosphere. Just everything. I wondered; did they change the genre of the background music? Is it the new employee? Or just simply more customers than usual?It did not feel like the usual calm and heartwarming coffee stop anymore.
“Dos Café con leche por favor,” I ordered.
“Huh?” The barista tilted her head. She seemed like a new employee.
“Dos Café con leche por favor!!!” I put out two fingers, hoping the gesture would help.
“?” She furrowed her brow and stared at me.
Is my pronunciation that bad? Or has the menu changed? I always used this phrase when I ordered; there must be some kind of mistake.
For the last time, I said frustratingly, “Café con leche! Dos! Por favor!” I noticed everyone was looking at me. I was making a scene when all I wanted were the two cups of coffee Abuela asked for. I felt my face blushing, hands shaking, and heart beating faster than ever. I hated embarrassing myself in front of people. It was the worst feeling, and I wished the ground would swallow me up. As I was about to leave and thought I was never coming back to this place, a shadow covered my blushing pink face. I looked up to my left and saw a tall man standing less than two feet away. I was annoyed at how close the man was standing next to me, so I blatantly stared at him from top to bottom, thinking he had a problem with me as well. Light blue polo shirt with glasses on the collar, a fancy silver Rolex watch around his left wrist, ironed black trousers in just the right length, and polished leather shoes. He seemed like a businessman, a successful one. I continued analyzing like a detective. The man was so tall that his head nearly touched the light hanging from the ceiling. But I could barely recognize his face because of the glare coming through the window behind him. Then he said something very fast in Spanish to the barista who didn’t take my order. The next thing I knew, I had a coffee in both hands with a man sitting next to me on the terrace. It took me a while to process what just happened.
“That’s a lot of caffeine for one person,” he grinned and poured some milk into his ice-black coffee.
“It’s not just for me. This one is for Abuela. We were looking forward to eating strawberry pie over this coffee, so thank you for saving the day back there. How much were these?”
“It’s my treat for you, no worries. I have to get to my meeting but promise me you’ll enjoy the pie with Abuela!” He stood up and walked to the office building across the street. There was something attractive about his broad shoulders and golden-brown hair that I could not take my eyes off of him. I watched him weave through the crowd, never losing sight of him. Then he turned around as if he noticed I was staring at him this whole time and started walking back to the coffee house. I tried to act innocently, crossing my leg over, casually looking in a different direction, and taking a sip of coffee. Still, my heart fluttered, more like a little heart attack, and I blushed again, but this time with a good feeling. The man sat beside me again and said, “I’m Luis, by the way. I hope I can see you here tomorrow and hear how you liked the coffee and pie.” I was overjoyed to hear from him again. “Of course, I promise I will be here tomorrow,” I said, smiling from ear to ear, unable to hide my excitement. “Sounds great. Tomorrow at 15:00?”
Luis was from Madrid and recently moved to the city for his engineering work. Day after day, we would meet at the same coffee house at around the same time. Luis was always the one who ordered for the two of us, sometimes coffee and other times tea, depending on our mood. But the caramel apple scone, which was a hidden menu item only locals knew, had always been our go-to dessert. And I was in charge of saving two seats on the terrace before the cats arrived to eat food crumbs under the table and take a nap after their stomachs got full. After a few weeks, the coffee house owner, Juan, saw through our date routine and was kind enough to place a reserved sign on the best terrace seats under a street tree. Since then, Luis came exactly at 15:00 straight from his office, but I still had to come early because the sign did not mean anything in the cat’s world.
I cannot remember what we talked or laughed about. I could never recall the sound of his voice—it was nowhere to be found in my memory, but I remember the feeling of how comfortable and honest I was when he was around. I sipped the coffee as slowly as I could, not because I was trying to avoid getting kicked out of the café but because I wanted to share the same moment together as long as time allowed. Next to our table was a tree the height of a three-story building with a thick tree trunk and countless leaves. It was a playground for the city squirrels and the home to parakeets that escaped from the narrow cages in people’s houses. Juan once told us that the tree was planted by the city council when he was four years old, over 70 years ago, but no one knew the name of the tree. Luis and I were always looking up from the seat, relaxed and healed by how beautiful the tree was and how happy the animals looked. Seeing the color of the leaves change, from vibrant green to red to just branches, made me realize how fast time went by.
Before I realized it, four months had passed, and it was the day I had to go. I knew this day would come, but never was I prepared to meet some of the most important people in my life and leave them without knowing if we would ever see each other again. Early in the morning, Luis left a note in my post box to meet him at the Barceloneta Beach at 19:00. We never spent much time together other than in our neighborhood, so I was a bit nervous and yet still excited to see him, but not in the same way as I felt on our usual dates at the coffee house. I took the local bus instead of the metro and appreciated all the memories of the past six months as I gazed at the city view out of the bus window. When I arrived at the beach, Luis was waiting for me under the flickering streetlamp that was about to go out at any moment. I jumped off the bus and ran towards him.
“…” he said, and handed me a bouquet of flowers and gently wrapped his warm hand around mine. I had never seen anything more beautiful than the dozens of full-blown pink tulips in his hands. From light pink to punch pink, a variety of pink tulips overflowed from the brown wrapping paper, giving off a rich aroma. I could not be any happier, but my eyes welled up with tears, and the heart-wrenching feeling of saying goodbye washed over me. We sat on the beach, leaning my head against his shoulder, and watched the waves come closer and closer for hours. Neither of us spoke a word. The sound of the wind, the ocean, and the scent of the tulips healed my sweet and sorrowful feelings. I never asked Luis what he was thinking because I knew from the warmth I felt from his hand that our hearts were connected and that we were both trying to hold on to this moment. The time between us was flying. Before we knew it, we were at the metro station, standing in front of the ticket gate. I looked at the monitor behind him and noticed that the train I was supposed to take had long passed, and I had already missed six of them. We just stood there hopelessly and kept hugging, not letting each other go. Still, neither of us said anything. Not even a goodbye because somewhere in my heart, I believed we would see each other in my next chapter.
And here I am today, 40 years later; I have never seen him or heard from him since. I still think about him, wondering about the life we could have lived together and full of regret for not telling him I love you. I kept wondering, was it worth it to be with Luis and be truly happy at that moment? Or would it have been better if the whole thing never happened? I still don’t know the answer. Maybe I don’t need an answer, because if I had said that I loved him and stayed in Barcelona, I would have never been married to a wonderful man and blessed with two children, running a guesthouse for travelers in the English countryside.
I looked out the airplane window. The sunset was creating a sea full of pink cotton candy clouds above the city of Barcelona. It felt unreal, as if I were entering the dream world again, and starting to recall the memories of the people I loved. I was free from the heart-rending feeling I carried for decades, and finally, Luis became real to me. His eyes, his smile, his laughter are vividly relived in my brain. He had beautiful green eyes, a sculptured face, and some freckles around his nose, and when he smiled, I loved how it created a dimple on his right cheek. I closed my eyes; I saw his hand with a bouquet of pink tulips. When I was with him, I was the happiest I had ever been in my life.
“So, are you happy?” The girl looked at me, filled with compassion. Her blue, watery eyes were sparkling from the reflection of the sunset. It was beautiful.
“… Happiness is moments. You cannot say you are happy all the time.” Nearly over an hour of our conversation ended. As the sky changed its color every minute, the girl and I both looked out the window for a while. I decided not to tell the girl that I woke up every single day, hoping that one day he would knock on my door and say, “…” but I had to keep this hope to myself. Until then, I must keep planting tulips in my garden.
Angles 