Short Stories / Sunday, April 15th, 2018

He served us wine and homemade Spanish tortilla and he spoke with a soft ‘c’ and his nose was sharp and his hair was sprawled out onto his back in black curls, and all the while he was rushing and talking and joking and smiling.

He’s from the Basque country, he said.

How come a Basque man finds himself as owner of a small tapas bar in the middle of a silver street in Perù, I asked.

His eyes were laughing, too, now.

“Para l’amor,” he said and looked over to the sweet-faced girl standing behind the counter.

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