I remember how we sat sipping a liqueur that the waiter had brought to us on the house. It tasted of oranges. It was a little sweet for me, too intense, but Jenny didn’t seem to mind. The children were becoming tired and it was time to go. I left a tip that was probably too generous by Spanish standards because the waiter seemed a little flustered when I signalled to him to keep the change that was on the plate. I had succeeded in embarrassing myself. I didn’t care, though. My heart was soaring and we laughed at how early it was that we were leaving the restaurant and the Spanish only beginning to arrive, whole families with their young children and grandparents. The jostling and the noise.

And I recall that Jenny held my hand as we walked back to the apartment. I felt full of pork and garlic and if it is true that garlic is good for the blood then I figured my blood to be like gold. Jenny was wearing a dress that was covered in a pattern of tropical plants and she looked particularly beautiful in it and I told her that. It seemed like the best moment.

I remember putting the children to bed and feeling a pleasure deep inside me that I would have Jenny all to myself. I had bought a bottle of cava before we’d gone out for dinner. I opened it and we sat out on the balcony to enjoy the rest of the evening, listening to the crickets and to each other. There on the balcony, I reached for her and slid my finger inside her and I felt so lucky. And her response was so tender. And she whispered that she loved me, whispered it.

And I think how we saw so many cyclists making their way up hills and the stinking heat. The stinking heat and the murder of it and the mosquitoes. We agreed, myself and Jenny, that Mediterranean cyclists must have an inner strength.