Indian

It was splendid; rows of dark oak benches filled the once open area down to the altar. At its head was the symbol of Christ on the cross with the most wonderful ornaments in gold and crystals that you could find anywhere. It was a truly glorious sight of the splendour that was Spain. My boyfriend and I found ourselves sitting in the front pew, in silence, looking at the vision of Christ on the cross. I looked at him but he was just staring into the distance and glancing from side to side, taking in the scent and vision of everything on display. From the corner of my eye, a woman came in, walked to the centre of the room, made the sign of the cross and then left just as quickly. I looked behind me to see how many others were around, and it was simply empty. Maybe it was the time of day, perhaps every one was having a siesta. I must admit to being a little horny at the time, that I probably would put down to a little alcohol and the heat. Whatever caused it, a rush of naughtiness. She would try to act the lady, conversing fluently in French with this mysteriously good-looking gentleman, and remember her etiquette, squeezing her lemon with the prongs of the fork, dipping the soup spoon away instead of towards you... those tiny, yet consequential vignettes of cuisine that separated the more sophisticated from the lesser. And when the Chateaubriand for two would be served, she would not stuff herself, though it had been two weeks since she'd anything as delectable as a piece of piping hot meat steaming in front of her.Between sips of her Fuisse Pouissy, Chris and Francois stared out over the blackened night, watching the ships slip by announced only by the low throaty moan of the fog horn. He'd been in merchant marine at one time, he told her through his mellifluously enunciated accent, and since then had made yearly trips back to the old sea port by the bay where he's spent many a memorable evening parading up and down Broadway Street, watching the pimps, the.
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