She sits in the front of the white Mercedes taxi.
He swings her worn, turquoise bag easily into the trunk.
They must make a stop before Vera to pick up a bag
For the English couple in the back seat.
She calls it baggage.
He calls it “valeta.”

She repeats the instructions of the English couple.
A little impatient now,
In exact Spanish, rat-a-tat-tat, he says,
“Pick up the ‘valeta’. Vera and, then Mojácar.”
Already she likes this man.
He suffers no condescension.

She apologizes, but notices
His grey, curling hair, his heavily-lidded green eyes.
She asks, “Much rain?”
He replies, “Only a little.”
She tells him that her flowers will be dry.
He points to a truck of melons.
They talk of melon,
The perfume of Galia melon
Eaten with ham.

She notices his ironed shirt,
Such a neatly pressed collar.
A woman ironed that shirt.
The woman most definitely
Was not his mother.

With confidence, he drives fast.
Occasionally, he sucks air through his teeth.
That clicking sound,
Sizing up every situation,
Sizing up her situation.

They talk of the police, fines on the road.
He corrects her halting Spanish with his staccato.
He points to a flock of sheep,
Sun setting, heading toward the sheep cote,
She sighs, “Ah… España.”
He seems surprised.
He drops the English couple.

Back in the taxi,
Both quiet, bashful now.
He sighs. She sighs.
He sighs. She sighs.
They drive along the sea from Garuccha,
Both silent.
They turn on the road to the house.
He corrects her “adelante” to “al frente.”
Up twists and turns, she is, finally, home.
He takes her “valeta” out of the trunk.
He comments on the trees in the garden.

She tips him pesetas,
Now it is an adiós, a muchas gracias.
They have not stepped out of their roles,
Ironclad, determined.
They will not see each other again.

But, she wonders
Just when
She has again begun
To notice.