You eat the grilled baby octopus and raise a glass to Spain, to yourself, to being 28 and to the absurd range of choices currently afforded you.
You’ve been here less than a day but already the weather and the proximity to water has healed you some. The recently appeared acne on your chin, the work stress, the million tiny heartbreaks of late, shrink back in this seaside air.
You could stay or you could go. Go to London or Barcelona or Sweden. New York, back to Sydney. You could find important, impressive sounding work, you could start your own business. You could get the motorbike license or the cat or a tattoo or all three.
You can be independent and self sufficient and world-wise and badass and still fall asleep in strong arms when offered. You can be resolute and serious and do the hard things, the necessary ones, the tough parts, and let yourself cry for 45 seconds in the coworking bathroom.
You eat dinner alone, read the books, sit by yourself on a bench, on the sand.
You listen to the Spanish choir playing Abba and Coldplay songs; you receive a text out of the blue. You revel in the glorious symmetry. The small wins. The promised pizza, the delivered back massage. You refuse the hug, endure the silence. The wanting. The waiting. The knowing.
You smile at a Sweet Caroline singalong breaking out along the beach. The wind in your hair, the promise in the air.
What is this, you wonder.
Summer. Freedom. Possibility. Solitude. Enough. More than enough.