Keeper of Her Heart
I bought my first heart in Albacete. Back then things were simpler, humidity was lower and maintaining them caused fewer headaches.
That one was not a particularly nice one, not in good nick, but you know how it is: your first one is always special, whatever it is. I have it now, I see it there, and it transports me back in time much more vividly than any of the many I’ve had since.
I had to take a bus there, the train was out that weekend, and it seemed a long journey. I guess it was a long journey, even then. I stayed is a very cheap pension that did a great line in sleepless nights, skin complaints and cockroaches.
The next morning I organised the deal, paid the cash, and spent the rest of the day in lines at the Ayuntamiento sorting out all the paperwork. How I grew to love, and crave, the sound of the heavy stamp coming down hard on thin paper. Finally I was all done.
By now the train was running again, and so myself and my heart travelled swiftly west to Madrid, and onwards, wherever my heart desired.
It led me to you, to your heart. Listo.
Today I wrote between 22:52 and 23:02. I was prompted by an idea here.
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