Cadiz rolled itself up like an armadillo during the last of the winter months. Of course the weather cooperated by providing a warm yellow sun during the day, and at night it was still most pleasant to sit outside in the moonlight for hours on end. But she noticed that her heavily accented Spanish was less welcome than usual in the few local shops and restaurants where she was not yet recognized as part of the community.
They gathered in small groups at this time of year, and as always she was at the center of one of them, like the eye of a hurricane, calm and still and barely audible but to the people directly beside her, who would lean towards her to catch her confidences. Another pack of children, laughing and breathless, hurtled out of the darkness and past their little corner of the town. The conversation continued, but all eyes at the table followed the herd as though taking inventory: Pablo, Irene, Alvaro...
She pulled out her zig zag and peppered the crease with tobacco, then proceeded to roll the whole thing up into a toothpick imitation of a cigarette. She paused in her story to light the thing, then let it dangle absently until it had expired. The stone walls of the buildings blended into the cobbled stone of the street, and a salty breeze settled into her nose. Perhaps it's time to go home, she thought.
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