I was 19, in Mexico City, standing on a beautiful night
street with soft sculpted aged buildings as far as the eye could see. The
Golden Angel farther down and all lit up , surrounded by cars going round and
round , the lights a golden glow . Octavio was introducing me to his good friends , and as I greeted them , I understood why. They were my age, and kind of proof that , despite him being 35, he was actually very... young ?
I wasn't certain. But he was nice and they were, Paloma and Pajaro. Very dramatically dressed, and all over each other madly. Their long straight black hair falling in a cascade over the two of them, shimmering waterfall, down their backs. With their bright smiles and deep olive skin and great expressive inquisitiveness. 1972.
We looked at each other as Octavio did the translating between us, and I
smiled, drinking it all in , luxuriously. Drinking in who the three of them
were in their lives .
Out we went, to beautiful outdoor restaurants, to tiny exquisite bars, where we were serenaded, fed small delicious things, until we wandered back home to the his high rise, back near the angel standing there in the dawn.
I drank all these things in, knowing that a few days later, I'd be long gone.
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