Almodóvar sat on a street bench, just south of Las Ramblas outside of the Placa Cataluna metro station.  It was hot and even though the sun was going down he felt as if it were only getting hotter.  The street did not change though, he thought, it was still crowded with tourists—faces of people who have seen a lot in one day, faces of people who are sick of waiting in lines and waiting for busses and looking at maps. The pick-pocketer's favorite hour.  The hour when children’s feet hurt and their mothers patience have worn, when late lunch eaters and day drinkers board the subways and when purses are set on the floor to tie shoes.  Almodóvar stopped pick-pocketing a long time ago. He thought about when he was thirteen and his brother first taught him how to pick-pocket by putting bells on his jacket. if Almodóvar  could grab the wallet every time without making a sound, that meant he was ready.  In that same moment a large woman on her cellphone speaking loud rapid farsi put her purse down on the bench next to where Almodóvar was seated. She leaned over to look for something in her briefcase and  Almodóvar  was inches from her wallet. He grinned a little to himself at the irony— just as he was thinking of his old life as a pick-pocketer, life tempted him, tested him, once more. 

            He stepped on his cigarette and decided to go for a stroll, putting his hands in his pockets and heading for the water.  No breeze blew but it felt like the kind of walk where there should be. The kind of walk where everything looks normal but feels as if something is missing that was maybe there before (like when someone stops the music or when the air-conditioning turns off). The type of feeling you're not fully conscious of until it disappears.  

            Almodóvar  turned down Carrer d'Amaragos even though it wasn't the fastest way to the water. He didn't know why, maybe he smelled something nostalgic or saw some sweet sort of curiosity in the eyes of a bored tan little boy who was watching a cat as he sat patiently outside of a store.  Either way he decided to walk that way instead, trying to put his finger on what was missing (that was maybe there before).  Suddenly, as he was stepped down from the sidewalk into the street, he had a memory (would he have had it had he not turned down that street?).  It was a memory of when he was about four or five maybe, but not after then because it was in Coslada before his father told the family to run away. 

            It was like this:  It was very hot and he was sitting in a chair and looking out the window above the kitchen sink.  The window was mosaic, blue and purple and pink, and made things beyond it look distorted but beautiful and had a big crack at the top.  He remembers looking through the window and have a little thought that scared him: What if the glass wasn't there and there was a big hole in the wall? Any kind of bird or bug could come and go! He remembered imagining the window glassless and then thinking that he might like it better that way (but why? Was he always attracted to what at first scares him?).  He had a plan to push the glass, and he pulled the chair up to the sink to climb on the counter.   Just as his hand was reaching for the distant and fascinating window, his mother appeared from nowhere and pulled him down, as if routinely and with out question (she had five children older than he, maybe he was not the first to wonder of the window?).  It was a strange memory to have, a memory he had never thought of before.  He looked around to see if there were other colorful windows that might have sparked the memory from peripheral vision, but saw none. 

            In that moment, Almodóvar tripped on a raised block of cobblestone, and his body fell so fast it was as if gravity yearned for him, like he was coming home to her after a long vacation.  Almodóvar's mouth hit the pavement first,  and the tan little boy ran to his help.  Quite quickly, there was blood everywhere.  Was I the first to wonder of the window? he continued to think , disoriented. blood growing. What is missing (that was maybe there before)? .  His head felt light and heavy, and he sat down again, not even sure of when he had stood back up.  A girl of maybe sixteen was asking him questions next to the thrilled little boy.  He only saw breasts, the little boys wide curious eyes and the color orange. He looked around, he still couldn’t find any mosaic windows.

"Should we take you to a doctor?" He finally heard the girl say.

"Huh, oh, no, I'm okay.  A napkin, maybe." He replied.

 The little boy ran back to the store as fast as he could, excited for the first action of the alley— a chance to be the hero. He returned with a towel and a little cup water.

"Thanks." Almodóvar  replied, trying to sit up. Almodóvar realized the blood wasn't from his lip, it was from his forehead.

“No, no careful,” urged the girl, she said, sitting too. She had a look of pain herself, of nausea maybe. “So much blood,” she said turning away from Almodóvar.  She gagged once real violently. “Im sorry,” she managed to apologize.  

 She threw up.

 The little boys eyes were bright with excitement. 

“I'll help!” He shouted, running back to the store for more water.  

         Almodóvar couldn’t help but think the moment was funny. Throw up, blood, an blasé cat watching from a window afar.  The feeling that something was missing (that was maybe there before) was beginning to pass.  

The boy returned skipping, with another towel and cup of water and was followed by an older woman.  His grandmother, Almodóvar figured.

 “I'm so sorry…the blood..,” the girl mumbled. Her face and cheeks were a deep flushed color. A bright post-regurgitate red that contrasted beautifully with her pale white breasts, he thought.

"What a scene!” The grandmother shouted as she walked towards Almodóvar and the girl. The sun was finally going down. The sky was the kind of blue that convinced Almodóvar for a moment that it must have been early in the morning.  He felt confused.  Was he drunk?  Where had he been all night? He wondered.

“I’m sorry,” he began to apologize. Why were they awake so early?  Had he been shouting in the street? “I didn’t mean to wake you.” He said as he attempted to get up and leave. As he stood he felt as if someone had hit him in the back of his head with a heavy bat.

“I think he’s having a concussion,” the girl said looking away from the blood.

“Oh my,” the grandmother whispered as she eased him down again on the curb.  Her hands felt like his own grandmothers hands, who died when he was twelve in Linares. the moon is growing… He thought.  Just any bug or bird...  He had the urge to sleep. 

        Almodóvar woke up to the sight of the same breasts and he felt many things at once, confusion, embarrassment, a dull pain, and a partial erection.   

“You fell like you were in your body for the first time,” the breasts spoke.  He looked up in to a pair of (completely full!) green eyes.  Nothing was missing in them. 

“I…I’m am sorry,” Almodóvar said sitting up, “I don’t know how. What day is it?”

“It is night time. 11 o’clock.  It’s still Friday.” She replied.

       Almodóvar felt a world of confusion, but also felt incredibly comfortable.  He didn’t want her to stop speaking.

“What happened?” He asked. 

“You were walking and you fell.  My brother saw the whole thing.  You were bleeding like you got shot or something. He said it looked like you fell that way on purpose.”  She was smiling.  The kind of smile one does when their talking about something sad but don’t mean to be smiling. “We took you upstairs because you weren’t making any sense when you were talking.”

         Almodóvar found himself smiling too. He didn’t know when he started to. The girl blushed.

“Why are you smiling?” She asked still smiling.

“I…I don’t know,” he responded. “Because I’m happy?” He said only knowing the truth truth of his words after he spoke them.

           At that moment, he realized what was missing, or at least had a better idea of what it was anyway.  It wasn’t happiness. Or breasts (a sight he’d half forgotten once he saw that wonderful redness in her face).  But it was something her eyes had a little bit of. He must of looked confused as he searched in them for what it was, because the girl made a puzzled face.

 “What's wrong?” she asked.

Almodóvar caught himself and became aware of his own expression.

“I’m sorry.” He said.  He felt his erection growing. “I..I am sorry,” he repeated again.  He wanted to get up, but he couldn’t. He felt a redness rise in his face too.

        The girl must have noticed, as she blushed harder, as if in competition, and in that movie- moment her grandmother walked in.

 “He woke up!” she said to her grandmother standing abruptly, her face a victorious crimson. His erection vanished.

 “I see that,” the grandmother said, with a voice that knew something.  Knew everything.  “Sip this boy, it will make you feel better,” she said handing him mate,  “You will be sleeping here tonight.”

“Thank you,” Almodóvar whispered, accepting the warm order of the woman.

“Esperanza,” the grandmother called to the girl.  The old woman's green eyes were wrapped like candy in a sheet of soft wrinkles and as she closed the door she gave the girl a gentle look that informed Esperanza to excuse herself.

Esperanza turned to Almodóvar.  "Well, Goodnight," she smiled, "Dream well."  The redness of her face was drying up or maybe just spreading to her lips.

“Please stay" Almodóvar said, but it came out "Goodnight" instead, and Esperanza closed the door very slowly and softly, as if Almodóvar were already asleep.