To the airport
The sleepiness of winter slides from the face of white-washed fishing villages. Shuttered eyes are raised to reveal once slumbering bars. Tables sprawl across the pavements and at them the first of the season's lobsters, all red and crisp from having plunged into the heat of the Andalucían sun. "Only mid-April", they say as their claws clack across the table-top grasping at forks to spear the chips, or waving to the now calm waiters for "more beer, more beer".
Calm waiters, calm as they rise from their winter siesta to face the quickening pace of the summer evening. Their aprons still pristine, starched, black. Their faces unperturbed as sun and cerveza take their toll, and the lobsters crawl home cooked in their own juices.
At the airport
Man in white linen waves three red roses to the girl in black. As she clasps him tightly he whispers words of divine love and she pulls them in. Humanity flows around them, their little island of love and when the rush subsides still they remain. Passion undisturbed - solitary one-ness on the ocean of gleaming marble floor.