Harlem Jazz Club, Barcelona

It is summer. You can tell by the smile of the youngsters and the cry of the waves, by the smell of shrimp crawling in through the opened window and the breeze, so sensual and bright, by the kids, running wild and unaware and the flowers, mature and heavy, howling and the wind. The feet feel so happy, bare or in gay sandals. At night, the seaside sprinkles its sultry crash and in the early morning the birds wake up crazy, ambushing the sky.

It is summer, well, almost, although all the signs are here for weeks now and the blood that got thick and sick and mad in April is finally ready for a little adventure, a trifling happiness, some new kisses. The bodies are waiting, as hard and warm as the sand.

There is something about a gang of man on stage, something beautiful, something to hate. They look powerful but helpless, like children with guns. And after a while they don’t look sexy anymore, instead, rather sweaty and ugly.

There is an old man walking around with roses, all wrapped up in plastic. He offers them to the public, he offers them to the musicians, and nobody takes one, nobody except Jack. He drops it. The old man picks it up.

There were only five of us when I got here. I can still see them through the smoke of the last song.

And when I get home I have lost my keys and cannot call anyone ‘cos I forgot the cell phone on my bed. So I cross back the city on my high heels, jumping and running on my toes back to Harlem, scared that I might sleep in the street the few hours I have before going back to work. And when I get there all my friends are gone and there are no keys on the floor. A couple of lovers have them; they say it was the man with the roses who found them. So I rush back to the street to fletch him and I kiss him thank you on the cheek and he gives me three roses.

There is some magic in the air. It is summer, most definitely.