Another installment from the beloved country of Spain. I must admit, I'm having one heck of a good time over here. This is pretty sappy stuff, though, so schmaltz warning from the get-go. (What can I say? Situations like this make me ooze sap. Like a tree. A big, old, maple or somesuch.)
You know you all love it - that's why you keep coming back and suffering through my crappy sappy posts. 
(Same disclaimer as last time - BlueDev, Cedarbird, one word of this to the parents and you're toast. And I mean it.)
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26 Feb 2008. 9:24 pm.
As we were talking on Monday, the fact I play guitar and write music came up. Suddenly she became like a woman obsessed - she was going to find a guitar and I was going to serenade her, end of story, no questions asked.
So we find ourselves roaming down side streets this afternoon, searching for a music shop.
She takes my hand firmly, our fingers interlocked, as she leads me down small, unknown streets. We stop at the corner, gasping for breath from our frantic run down the narrow corridor.
I ask her where exactly we're headed, and if she has any idea where we can find a guitar around these parts.
She turns to me, and her eyes seem to smile even more than her luscious, perfectly-crafted lips.
Hillary leans ever closer, her deep hazels never leaving mine, until she's pressed right up against me. She comes even closer, her mouth right against my ear. Her breath is warm and my heart beats like a Virgil Donati drum solo.
She whispers simply: "I have no idea."
She pulls back, wraps her arms around my neck, and kisses me on the nose. With a fleeting glance, she takes off again down another thin road. I smile and follow.
We never do find a guitar.
27 Feb 2008. 6:07 pm.
Hillary's class cancels this afternoon. Seeing as how I'm done with class by eleven, she unexpectedly knock my door. I'm knee-deep in a nasty critical analysis of a Thomas Hardy poem (and who would have thought that my hardest class, the one I have to work the most for, would be the English one? Go fig) but Hardy can wait. He's been around for one hundred years - chances are he'll still be around after lunch.
She asks where we're going as I grab my backpack, throw my books haphazardly across my bed, and stuff in my trusty Martha Stewart blanket. I tell her to follow, trust me, and take hold of her cold hand, warming it in both of mine.
A quick trip to OpenCor and a knapsack full of lunch later, we trek up to the old part of town. We arrive on the corner of the old walls, climb atop them, lay out the blanket and picnic.
It's beautiful, looking out over the sea on this clear, sunny day. The wind whips past us up on the wall as she snuggles closer. The store-bought sandwiches aren't great, but they do the job. The splendid part is the apples - granny smiths, tart and crisp, popping with just the right snap and a rich, tangy flavor.
I clean up the trash, put it in the bag, and lean back, overlooking the Mediterranean. Ships lumber across my view, to and from the port.
I put my arm around her and her head rests on my chest. The breeze has a chill, despite the brightness of the noon-day sun.
Her breath smells like apple, mixing with the scent of her perfume as we cuddle. She reaches into her pocket, pulls out a cigarette, and lights up.
Normally I would be repulsed, or at least nonplussed. However, I find her alluring - everything about her, even the smoking. I make a joke about lung cancer and all that, and she laughs and says she should quit.
Our topic of conversation morphs through dozens of iterations, from memories of growing up to favorite colors (mental note: her = green) to religion to what brought us to Spain.
The content ranges, but she's warm, she's there, and for a bit, she's mine.
I'm happy.
I'm pretty damn sure she is too.
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So there's another installment. I've set this to post later, testing out some of the features of Windows Live Writer. Let's see if it'll post.
Anyway, thanks for stopping by. We're going out on another date tonight, I'm sure you'll get the update in a few.