To Those Who Wait...

Arturo was born above this bar, 52 years ago. He entered the world amid a flurry of Catholic wailing, rosary beads, and steams of hot water, on a sweltering night in July. Ideally for his father, this meant that there was no chance of the birth, or subsequent birthdays, interrupting a football match. Arturo loves the bar, Barca, Catalonia and Spain - strictly in that order.

Arturo is a perpetually lean, bespectacled, benevolent man. His world is within 100 metres of the bar, which gazes benignly onto a small square off the Avinguda Diagonal, in Barcelona's north east. Arturo lives above the bar in an apartment no-one has seen. It could be a large loft, bereft of furniture and personal details, in the modern minimalist style sweeping Barcelona, like every other European city. Or it could be a time capsule, filled with the memorabilia of his father's bitterness at the Civil War, and his mother's descent into madness. No-one knows for sure.

The bar is a stone's throw from the Camp Nou stadium. The floodlights illuminate its terracotta-tiled roof. For seventy years, the bar has shed slivers of powdery plaster as Barca fought to preserve the Catalonian soul through the simple, powerful geometry of football. The square has echoed to car horns, and the Catalonian anthem, screamed out in support of the team, and in defiance of General Franco. Above the bar counter is Arturo's prized possession – a signed photo from Cruyff himself.

Arturo is single, and always has been. He claims to be wedded to the bar, and few could contradict him about that. He never seems to leave. At 7am, he is putting out the shiny metal chairs onto the courtyard, waving to his neighbours in the clean morning light. He is already wearing his trademark waistcoat and bow tie, his glasses glinting and sending tiny shards of light into the apartments around the plaza. He is providing churros and tostadas for those weary teenagers staggering out of the all-night clubs in the area, diplomatically avoiding a look at their exposed midriffs and glistening, tanned thighs. And at 3am, he is the one wishing the last regular to leave a courteous "hasta luego", as he fastens the metal bolts on the doors, switches off the lights, and climbs the stairs. Rain or shine, every day.

Discrete. Yes, that is the word for him, always the soul of discretion. Softly spoken, quiet and dignified, he runs the bar that his drunken father won in a poker game. Always a good word for everyone, always there. And yet, especially by the ebullient characteristics of his countrymen, he is a reserved man. Everything with Arturo is sotto voce, a deliberate counterpoint to those around him. It might be thought that this is simply his way of allowing his customers to take centre stage, as every wise bar owner does. But there is more.

Arturo is in love.

He first saw her ten years ago, when the Antilonez family moved in across the square, opening a jewellery shop. The daughter, Maria, had not been with them at first. She was studying Goya in Madrid, and then was a warden in a nature reserve near Cadiz. But one day - and yes, he does remember the exact day – she came into the bar. Barca was playing Real Madrid, and the bar was suffocating under the weight of people, passion, and the expectations of a city. All eyes strained to see a television high in one corner. Hands held high in exhortation, and holding heads as Barca struck the crossbar. With five minutes to go, and the teams deadlocked, no-one noticed Maria come in. Except, that is, for Arturo.

The defining moment of one's life can be a shattering explosion of knowledge, ripping into one's heart and burying itself deep inside. Or it can be a simple non-event, unnoticed by all concerned – a seemingly casual incident that grows in magnitude and significance only later. For Arturo, it was the former. He had simply never seen a woman like Maria before. Lovely women, beautiful women, they had entered the bar down the years. But nothing like Maria.

She carried herself like no-one he had ever seen. She had a simple, quiet dignity that spoke of boundless self-knowledge. Not haughty, not distant, just beguiling, as mesmerising as a sunset. She slid effortlessly between the watching customers towards the bar. Arturo's heart was electrified. Her rich, liquid-brown eyes swept across the bottles behind him, and then she looked him in the eye.

There was a softening in her look that even he, modest and unassuming, could not mistake. She dropped her eyes in a strangely demure moment, before she selected her wine. He inclined his head slightly and turned to fetch the bottle, sneaking a glance at her in the mirrored tiles behind the counter as he did so. She played absent-mindedly with a pendant around her neck, and he felt a longing to touch her throat, just to caress the honeyed skin for a single second.

As Arturo went to speak to her, a young customer turned around and decided she was worth deserting Barca for. With an arrogance of youth, he moved towards her and they started chatting. Arturo laid the glass of wine quietly on the counter, and eased away into a corner. The young customer used the noise of the watching patrons as an excuse to move closer still, to touch her arm as he spoke, and Arturo felt his chance slipping away. He stood, cleaning a glass with a white cloth, half-watching the football, and sneaking glances at Maria. He watched her fingers sliding around the glass, and her hair as she moved her head. And felt helpless, bereft, and lonelier than anyone in a crowded room should feel.

After a while Maria left – alone. Some of the regulars had noticed his stolen glances, and began ribbing him. No-one had seen Arturo display anything less than old-fashioned, if stilted, courtesy towards any female customer. He felt somehow powerless to take this joking without embarrassment, and found himself overly-occupied with the pressure of the barrels in the cellar. There, he took deep breaths of the cool, musty air, but could not clear his mind.

One might suspect that, having experienced this cataclysmic change, Arturo would have done something about it. But he did not. Arturo is a creature of habit. All his life has been centred on this plaza. He is an intelligent and well-read man but his knowledge of the rest of the city, let alone the rest of Spain, is sketchy and second-hand. His understanding of current events stems largely from snatches of television news in the quieter hours, and the one-eyed rants of his louder customers. People – suppliers, his accountant – come to him. He is the spider in the web and, like all spiders, cursed with infinite patience. So, after that first meeting, he simply waited for Maria to return.

It was four years. Maria's mother died and, as he always did for the citizens of the square, Arturo used his bar as a free venue for the post-ceremony tapas, condolences and polite conversation. All was provided, and nothing asked for by way of payment. Arturo had the integrity to carry this off, without offending the bereaved family's dignity. Maria was shrouded in a veil, but he did not see her cry. She greeted friends and family alike with a closed, distant kiss on both cheeks. As guests drifted away, she spoke briefly to him to thank him for his generosity. He expressed his sympathy at her loss, and shook her hand. He felt a rush of heat swarm across his body as he touched her for the first time. She said that she would now be moving to the city from Zaragoza, to take over the jewellery shop. He inclined his head again, and said that he would be proud to help in any way that he could. As she left, he found himself staring, but in his naïve way, he had not noticed that he was the only person for whom she had lifted the veil, and for whom her eyes sparkled.

Months and years seemed to drift by. The world revolved around Arturo's bar but the bar, and Arturo, did not seem to move. He eschewed modern touches, and the bar continued to be filled with ill-informed debate, loud regrets of love affairs undertaken or allowed to slip away, football and laughter. Each morning, he saw Maria lifting the shutters over the shop's windows, and carefully setting out sparkling brooches on black velvet. His nod of greeting, across the hustling swarms of morning commuters, became over the years a lifted hand of recognition, and then a wave. He noticed that she always wore something black, whether it was a skirt, a blouse, or just a scarf. She noticed that he always wore a waistcoat, and a bow tie.

Today, she comes into the bar.

It is quiet, and Arturo is placing some more tapas onto plates on the counter top. He hears the doorbell chime as she enters, but does not look up. It is raining heavily outside, and he can hear the roar of the rain on the cobbles, and the clatter of people running for cover as the hot spell breaks. Thunder wrenches the humid air. And suddenly, she is standing before him. Drops of water glisten and cling to her jet-black hair. Her mouth is open from the exertion of rushing across the plaza. He is too much of a gentleman to look at her blouse, which clings to her skin in all the right places, and leaves the other customers open-mouthed.

"Arturo, is there somewhere we can talk? In private?"

Arturo glances at young Iker, who has started work ten minutes ago. Iker nods quietly and moves to the other end of the bar. He is well-trained, but Arturo knows he will begin gossiping as soon as he can. Arturo gestures the way with his hand, and he and Maria climb the stairs to Arturo's apartment. He swallows and tries not to notice the elegant sway of Maria's hips as she climbs the steps, or the way her hair shimmers in the light, or the way her fingers caress the rail. In the back of his mind, Iker's agitated conversation fades away. Did you ever see such a thing? No-one ever goes to Arturo's apartment, except Arturo. And now, that Maria from the jewellery shop.

He opens the door for Maria and stands back to allow her to enter. His hand does not shake as he thought it would, and he feels oddly calm. This moment, the one he prayed for but never expected God to grant him. She steps into the apartment, and is astonished.

It is about twice the size of what she expects. It consists mainly of one room, the polished floorboards flowing down a series of levels towards a large arched window, through which the muted grey light of the receding thunderstorm drifts into the apartment. To one side, a raised area embraced by a mahogany balustrade contains a sleeping platform, with translucent fabrics draped over the bed like a canopy. On the other side, a second platform contains an antique desk, topped by sepia photos. And around, all around, are books, thousands of books. Most are old, elegantly bound in faded leather, a galaxy of muted gold letters on their spines. Books held in crafted shelves. Books piled on the floor, on a table, everywhere. Books that have bred, and sprawled, and taken over Arturo's world, and saved him from the horror of a life without intimacy. But only just.

She turns to look at him. He has the expectant, hopeful look of a small child, who is presenting his father with something he has made at school. His innocence spears into her heart, and makes up her mind. She smiles. He smiles.

"Arturo, this is exactly what I would wish for you. Somewhere beautiful, and private, and perfect. This is the most wonderful place in the world."

Arturo can barely hide his astonishment. Because what he has shown her is not his apartment. It is his soul. It contains every essential element of who he really is. Not just the discrete, gentle bar owner. But every last bit of him. And she has accepted him.

"Thank you. I had always hoped that one day you would see this place, but I never thought that you would. A woman such as you will never be short of admiration. I had always thought that my admiration would somehow be less important than someone else's."

His words came out in a rush, a secret long-hidden, a confidence opened up to the world.

She takes his hand.

"Arturo, do you know why I always wear black?"

He shakes his head. He has always assumed that it is a sign of respect for her mother, a form of mourning and a perpetual reminder of her loss.

"When I first came to the bar, I was young and foolish. I was intrigued by you, but I was too easily swayed by silly, peripheral things. I did not know myself as well as I thought I did. I allowed myself to be distracted, and I could not think of a way to speak to you again. When I came back for my mother's funeral, I saw that you were still here, and that the things we felt were still there. I don't know how to describe it because it was all unspoken, but I do not need to describe it to you. I know that you feel the same. But when you did not pursue me, I felt a dream had died. I felt that we would both forever hold back, forever look at each other across the plaza. And both grow old, wanting but never having, dying inside like desert flowers. I wear black to remind me of the day I truly lost my heart to you.

'You are more patient than me. More patient than anyone I know. You waited for me. But a patient man will not come and get me. I have more passion than patience. So, instead, I have come to get you."

Maria moves forward, and Arturo finds himself falling into a kiss. Ten years of yearning wells up inside them. The kiss is long, but slow, and gentle, not rushed or needy. It is a form of consummation, the end of a long dance, and the start of another. Thoughts rush through Arturo's head but can find no rest. They are crowded out by, for the first time in his life, the sweet sensation of simply feeling. No analysis, no quiet contemplation of the written word. Just being in the moment, and relishing what it has to offer.

They seem to reach the bed without breaking the kiss. Later, they would tell each other how a sacred hand seemed to be guiding their every move, their every caress, their every look. As if some deity had decided that, yes, Arturo and Maria should be together and make each other very, very happy. It does not seem to be their actions at all. Every last vestige of the nervous inaction, the tentativeness of their silent courtship, melts away. Their instinct for each other does not fail.

The touch of their fingers sooths and thrills. Their eyes become the centre of the world. Arturo's lips trail down her neck, tasting her skin, relishing her sweetness. He barely registers her short breaths, as his tongue finds her nipple. His hands caress her flanks and cup underneath her, drawing her in. He wants to taste her, breathe her, live her. She moves slowly beneath him, her hands sliding through his hair and gently pushing him down.

He slowly pulls down her skirt, and moved her panties to one side. For a moment he simply looks at her flesh, relishing the perfection she offers, strangely sure of himself and of her. For the first time in his life, he feels no fear, no agitation. He looks up at her face, which radiates her simple pleasure at being with him like this, at his need for her. He smiles, and blows gently on her pussy lips. She whimpers, and grinds her ass further into the bed, beckoning him on with her hips, and touching his cheek. In the oncoming evening light, he can see her high cheekbones as she smiles, and closes her eyes.

His first lick is the sweetest moment of his life. Something buried inside him tells him to remember it, to burn it into his soul for all time, and never to forget. He feels her tense as he eases his tongue into her, and begins lapping at the juices that are gently oozing onto the pink flesh of her pussy. Slowly his licks become longer and deeper, as he becomes emboldened. He wants to feel her arch under him, feel her body flex and stiffen as she comes. He can feel the heat emanating from her body.

She begins to writhe, calling out his name in hoarse, hissed whispers. He gets a sudden subliminal flash of her, making herself cum in the apartment above her shop, hissing out his name as she reaches her peak. It brings him to full hardness, and drives him on. His flattened palms press her thighs into the bed, making her push against him as she comes. He feels her fingers tighten in his hair, then her back lifts from the sheets, her head is thrown backwards, and she lets out a guttural scream that echoes around the room.

When he feels that her gasps for breath have receded, and that she is something close to controlled, he inches his way up her body, licking her sweat-covered stomach as it rises and falls in shallow breaths. He can't keep away from her sweet throat, licking and sucking it with a hunger he has never felt before. And then, there is her smiling face, glowing from inside with an intense combination of satisfaction and desire. He cups her face in his hands, and they exchange one long, slow, delicate kiss.

"Oh my God, Arturo!"

He smiles.

"This is really happening, isn't it Maria? After all these years?"

"Yes, my love. It is."

Her hand reaches down and grasps his cock, slowly caressing the smooth skin, and gently flicking her fingers across the exposed head.

"Because, my love, everything comes to those who wait........"

She eases her body over his, kneeling above his cock as she takes off the last of her clothes. He drinks her in with his eyes, lingering over every curve, every hollow, every inch of her skin. She sees the enraptured look on his face, and feels a flush run through her as she realises the depth of his admiration, and his love. It feels so right, so natural, that she has none of the fear she'd always anticipated. It feels like coming home.

Their eyes lock as she slides down on him, her pussy smooth and wet against his skin. Her heat transmits through his body, and she leans forward, snaking her arms around his neck as they kiss. He begins to move, small concentric circles with his cock, easing himself gently against her pussy walls. She seems to flow with him, joining his rhythm and the cadence of his gentle fucking.

Their tongues find each other with a greater urgency, and he begins to fuck faster, harder, and further. She meets his passion with an increased ferocity, and they find themselves bucking against each other. Ten years of pent-up desire is pounding in their heads. Ten years of wishing, and hoping, fears and fantasies. Their skin slaps together, a thin film of sweat linking their bodies. His hand runs through her hair, grabbing a bunch of it together as he pushes himself deeper into her, raising himself off the bed as she rides him.

His grunts match her short, sharp moans as he seems to find new depths, new angles, and new points of contact with each thrust. She is burning from the inside out, and heat is everywhere inside and around her. She ceases to feel where her skin ends, and his begins. They are one person.

At last, they climax together, a moment too perfect to allow it to pass without a scream from each of them. Her fingers dig into his shoulder blades, as she feels skewered on the moment. It is impossible to hold back, and she seems to melt as she calms down. He holds her tight, wanting that release to never finish, knowing that he has found something he'd quietly searched his whole life to discover. It has been worth the wait.

They lie quietly in the bed. Her head rests against his shoulder, and it is too delicious for either of them to move. Their breathing syncopates, the echo of their screams still lingers in the room. Their tanned limbs are entwined, and they each know that this is what they deserved.

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