Licence. (poetic)

further north

The flat is on a side street, off of a back street, near the Ramblas in Barcelona.

It’s Spring time.

Maria's room is at one end of the corridor; sunlight from the windows at the front of the flat overlooking the street, stretches along the corridor.

The corridor is tiled.

Old ceramic tiles from the factories of Bisbal near the coast.

You can not see the sea from the front of the flat; there is no balcony.

You can not see the sea from Maria's room either; there is a balcony but it looks down onto gardens at the rear, though gardens is the wrong word.

Yards.

Terraces.

Pots and pots of plants and the occasional cage with a canary waiting for the sun to reach her so that she can sing.

Maria is waiting too.

And she is listening.

She is sitting on her bed, a thin mattress unrolled on the tiled floor that will be cold to the touch of her feet when she stands.

She will stand soon, when the song is sung; she wants to go to the kitchen to make tea.

A pot of tea.

Chinese tea.

There are not a lot of things in her room.

A book, a few clothes and a cassette player and a small table to put the tea.

The song is coming from the cassette player.

A man sits on the mattress alongside her, they are lovers.

Last night and today.

He is a visitor; it is not certain that he will still be there tomorrow.

It is he who brought the cassette from which the song is sung.

Bob Dylan.

There’s a woman, on my street, just sits there…….

The cassette is new, then.

The song is old, now.

Maria will still be here on this street when she too is old.

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