Mechero

I stood in the estanco nextdoor embarrassed at my inadequate Spanish.
Goborra? I asked pointing at the jar of cigarette lighters. She returned a vacant stare and said something. I nodded. “Si, por favor”.
I scanned the wall of cigarette packs not seeing what I was looking for.
“Marloboro? Ligera, light?”
“Pequeño?”, she offered.
“Si”, I answered, “Pequeño.”
She opened a drawer and laid a pack on the counter beside the lighter.
“Cinco con cincuenta.”
I gave her the twenty I’d withdrawn from the ATM earlier.
I paused. “No me fumar por mucho tiempo. Tengo mucho estrés.”
I don’t know why I felt the need to explain myself.
It’s only a few metres from the estanco to the terraza where I’m drinking a beer and smoking my first cigarette for a year.
Why am I stressed? Take your pick from half a dozen possibilities: general to particular. Anxiety is my stock-in-trade.
A green webbing bag sits on the table, stuffed with books and some Spanish football magazines.
I slid Ginsberg in on the way out. A bad sign. “Inside the baggage room at Greyhound”. I have a couple of reference points with that one.
Three girls sing Happy Birthday in Spanish. Same tune. One hands a gift bag across the table.
The tables turn over quickly.
It’s not the best cafe on the square, but the sun shines onto the canopy and warms the air around the terraza. Sparrows are chattering in the sun and squabbling over crumbs of hard bread. They seem to be waiting for the swallows and swifts. We all are. It won’t be long now.
I light another cigarette. Girls arrive at the next table, kissing their greetings.
“Mechero”. That’s what she said. A lighter is mechero.