My friend and I had been walking through the old town. We had eaten smoked meats and cheese and drank sparkling wine at a tapas restaurant that had felt like a cave, though more inviting. The tapas bar was low-lit, cool, earthen. It was hot outside, and sunny. My friend had gone shopping. I wanted to wander.I had no idea where I was going and, having only just arrived the day before, every few strides felt like exploring. Along one of the streets I saw a beautiful door. Wood and wrought iron, old and intricate, it was designed to open in panels as well as all at once. I had hoped that while I was standing there someone would leave a glass jar of milk at the person's door (if indeed someone lived there) and ring the bell. The milk man would be gone by the time the hearer walked from the courtyard to the door, and, so, he or she (the hearer) would open one panel of the door first, and then no more, reaching an arm out for the milk.
As I was thinking this (and meanwhile attempting to look disinterested), the door actually opened, in its entirety. A woman, about fifty years old, walked out. I had turned around and could no longer feign my disinterest. The woman was wearing a stylish taupe-colored dress, brown leather heels, and a red and black embroidered apron. Her hair was done up in a chignon, and she was wearing earrings. She saw me standing there and asked, in Catalan, had I seen the milk man?
I wasn't sure how to answer. Before I had the chance to decide, the door had closed.
