Sunday — No face no reply
I scrape the sickly saliva from my chin and watch the morning’s breakfast drip down into the undergrowth. A handful of skaters and cyclists and strollers trickle through the shaded corridor of Retiro’s hulking oaks, only the merest slivers of light from the persistent sun filtering through.
Enjoy this, I tell myself — the tranquillity. Madrid in August.
