Rota

The beer from the day before made good on its promise. I spent a decent chunk of the morning in the bathroom, paying the price for all that free Cruzcampo. But once my body settled down, the day opened up into something gentle.

It was warm — easily in the seventies — with a bright sun and a sky so blue it almost didn’t look real. I took Jeff’s bike and rode down toward the water, then spent the afternoon sitting in the sand with my headphones on. I didn’t go in the ocean because of the tattoo, still raw on my chest, but I didn’t really need to. Just being there, listening to music, letting the sun bake into my skin while the waves rolled in and out, was enough. After weeks of moving constantly, it felt strange in the best way to simply sit still and do nothing.

Later, Jeff and I went to an arcade and played video games like a couple of teenagers again. It was stupid and fun and exactly what we used to do back home. We didn’t talk about anything heavy. We just shot aliens, raced cars, and laughed when one of us choked on a game we used to be good at. That night we watched a few movies at the apartment, the kind of mindless stuff that didn’t require much from either of us.

It wasn’t an exciting day by any measure. But after the chaos of the trip and the blackout drinking from the night before, the quiet felt like a relief. I wasn’t trying to get anywhere. I wasn’t worried about the next train or where I’d sleep. For one more day, I was just here — on a beach in southern Spain with my best friend — and that was more than enough.