Gijon Jazz

The bags under his eyes roll over like an infinite swell into a narrow bay, never fully cresting. His locks channel John, or was it Paul, on the Sgt Peppers cover. ....The Spanish have a nervous tick, they tug at the nose with the thumb and forefinger. It’s not clear what relief it brings. His steps are a straddle, mosey maybe, with a perfectly measured sway in the arms. You’d guess, I’m guessing, he played music or still does. I bet he has a record collection. The Clash, Joy Division. Maybe he’s gone jazz by now. Everyone eventually finds their way to jazz, the smart ones do, don’t they? If I were doing a charcoal portrait, I’d start at his hollow cheeks and jawline, build up. There it is (Planet Earth voice) the elusive smile emerges from under a perma-frown. I hope someone took a picture, that thing’s not coming back out til spring.

Now her……she, she’s like a Lladró figurine. Spanish porcelain. Ballet frame. Firm, delicate, she might as well be bartending en pointe. Cheek bones like sand dunes shifting with the North African winds. The levante. Coelho’s image, not mine. Her weathered low top Vans means she’s more street than studio. I believe her. The tattoo on her inner ear is more convincing tbh. Sometimes I wish no one had tattoos....so we all had to start from scratch when reading them. I think wrinkles, scars, are the skin’s natural body art. Money can’t buy those. ...She threw out a half smoked rolled cigarette, god damn, I think I’m falling for her. Imagine that type of commitment. If it weren’t for her ears, poking slightly out of her hair, like an ex-girlfriend of mine, I might already be face flat. A precipitous fall from the edge of her hips.

Gijon. 2019.