“Suddenly, life’s precious again.”
Laia pointed to her ear, shaking her head. “No puedo oírte.” The RiRi remix wasn’t that loud, nor had she misunderstood.
“You’re the DIAMOND” he said, pointing to the speaker. She heard her eyes roll. “Want a mojito? They’re awesome.” His American accent was as strong as his cologne. When did Paco Rabanne launch “White Male Privilege”? He motioned two more from the bartender.
She smiled, holding up her vermut. “No, gracias. Estoy bien.”
“You’re very bien,” he said, flashing a smile that would have made Bon Jovi proud, save the mint-bedazzled bicuspid.
She’d seen him earlier at her best friend’s chirringuito. She was studying for next weekend’s CPE, and liked eavesdropping on tourists to hear “authentic” English. He’d complained rather loudly that his bravas needed salt. Then he mansplained to his companion how to peel her shrimp. After demanding mustard (already on the table), he bemoaned, “The thing about Europe is it’s just not classy.”
“Come on, baby.” He nudged a mojito over. “We’re not gonna let a little foreign tongue be a cockblock, are we?”
“Cariño,” Laia said, sliding the drink back and sliding into perfect English. “Your personality’s taken care of that.”