The wind is strong this afternoon. It is after 6:30 p.m., but heat still radiates off the tiles in the patio. Flies gather in the ivy. They hang with their sticky feet onto the shady undersides of the leaves. They buzz, invisibly. The greenery sounds like it´s humming to itself.
The birds are gone silent. No radio plays, no tractors pass. I hear the blood thumping inside my ears.
Paperwork, stacked under a round rock on the tabletop, thumbs itself in the breeze. The day´s business is done: We gave a new pair of crutches to Paula, a neighbor lady who lent a pair when Gareth broke a foot-bone here last week. We said goodbye to Juli, and saw her on her way to a new job in rural Burgos. Reservations are made for a mountain hike two weeks hence, and tickets bought for a November expedition up north. Email was duly sent to the insurance guy in America. The past is put away. The future is planned-for. Nothing more to achieve. I am left here, in the present.
The dog barks next door. The wind lows in the top of the spruce tree.
A horn honks out on the autopista. Tim the Dog, sprawled in the doorway, groans in his sleep.
Here inside our walls is pure quietness.
No one wants anything.
Someone else is making dinner, something Italian, with prawns.
The kitchen is clean.
No one is coming here this evening. Nothing much is planned for tomorrow, either. Harvest some eggplants. Sweep the patio. Put up some primer on the outside wall and put Brian, our current handyman, to work on that.
The last houseguests, two fine and merry Scotsmen, left two days ago. They went smiling, promising to return. One is a really special guy. I may have found a true new friend.
I am doing nothing, but I am not bored.
Operatic Placido birds have arrived in the spruce-top. They are tuning up for their evening concert. Inside the house, Murphy wails for his dinner.
Nothing more but right now. Right here.