On Tuesday morning, June 20th, I left the abba Rambla hotel and, after a brief moment of hesitation, turned right. It made no difference either way. I had an extra day left of my business trip, and my flight wasn’t until tomorrow, so I had the whole day to myself. This was my second time in Barcelona, but I was too busy to go for a walk the first time, so it did not really count.
I didn’t have a plan. I just wanted to wander, to feel the city, you know. Definitely not the main tourist attractions. On Tuesday, the crowds were a bit thinner, but I still wasn’t excited by them. I just strolled slowly down the streets, staring at people and shop windows, listening to snippets of bilingual conversations (I knew Spanish, but not much Catalan), stopped at a random café to drink a cortado, and then kept walking. And after some time, I found myself on Las Ramblas. So much for avoiding the crowds.
Of course, I’d heard about this famous tree-lined pedestrian street. Who hasn’t? Even my business partners recommended that I visit it. I found it lively and vibrant, albeit a little chaotic. Somewhere in the middle, between the flower stalls, food stands, and human statues, there was a sparse line of amateur artists selling their paintings. It wasn’t really my thing, but I wasn’t in a hurry, so why not? I stopped by the first stall, but everything there was either more or less amateurishly made or painfully derivative. I moved on.
I passed a stall selling poor imitations of Dalí’s work, and another displaying mediocre seascapes. The artists mostly looked like hobbyists – older people, often chatting with friends or on their phones – their passion seemingly buried under layers of commercialism aimed at wealthy and hurried tourists. Some people were quick to sketch passers-by, offering their caricatures in exchange for money. This art lacked soul. I was about to turn into the narrow alleys of the Gothic Quarter when something made me pause.
Yet another aisle, yet another dozen paintings. But these were different.
I am not a connoisseur of painting at all, but it did not take a skill to recognize their quality. The vibrant strokes and bold color combinations were captivating. The subjects varied – a lot! – but they all shared a raw, almost untamable energy. One painting showed the cathedral at night, but with colors so vivid they seemed to pulse with life. Another was a simple street scene, but the way the light hit the cobblestones made you feel the heat rising from the stone. These weren’t just pictures; they were emotions captured on canvas. As I said, other artists here preferred to stick to a single theme, like sea scenes, landscapes, or portraits, and so on. There were no two similar paintings in this collection.
I moved slowly from one picture to another until I stopped by a painting of an old man playing the guitar on a deserted beach at sunset. The colors – burnt orange, deep purple, a touch of crimson bleeding into the sand – told a story of solitude and music. The old man wasn’t just strumming; he was pouring his life into those strings. I could almost hear the melody, a melancholic tune carried by the sea breeze. I felt an odd connection to it, a strange sense of déjà vu. I’d never seen this place, yet I knew it. Felt it. And the more I looked, the less I wanted to part with it.
“¡Hola, señor! Fancy buying something?” asked a dark-skinned man who was selling almost decent landscape watercolors in ridiculously cheap-looking frames at the next aisle.
To buy? This unexpected idea struck me: I’ve never had any paintings at home before, let alone genuine works of art. But there’s always a first time, right? And if I were to start collecting, I would start with this one.
“Sí, por favor.” I looked around in confusion. There was no one selling in this aisle. “Where’s the owner?”
“Un momento, señor.” He looked somewhere behind my back and shouted, “Emmelia! Vine aquí de pressa, you’ve got a customer!”
“Un moment!” a clear girl’s voice responded.
I turned around and saw her, a girl in her twenties, dressed in a boho style. She stood leaning against another artist’s easel, pointing to different spots on the unfinished painting and explaining something expressively to the painter. Then she took his brush and made a few quick, precise strokes. Then she gave the brush back and turned to us, brushing her hair away from her eyes with the back of her hand.
My God, she was beautiful.
She wasn’t just beautiful in the conventional sense. It was a wild, untamed beauty that matched her paintings. Her hair, a cascade of dirty blonde chaos, was cut just at her neck and seemed to have a life of its own. A colorful scarf, frayed at the edges, was tied loosely around her head. She wore a loose, long, embroidered skirt with a simple black camisole, and a handful of mismatched bracelets jingled on her wrists and ankles. And her feet – her bare feet – were black with the dust of the city streets, like those of a hippie or gypsy. Yet she moved with a dancer’s grace, as if the grime were simply part of her natural element. Her fingers were stained with paint of every hue, and there was a fresh stain on her cheekbone.
“Bon dia,” she said, her voice a melody with a hint of something older, wilder. “I see you like my painting.” She gestured towards the canvas I was admiring.
“I… I, um, yes. It’s… extraordinary,” I managed to say. “Who painted it?”
A slow, sly smile spread across her face. “I did, of course. You like the colors?”
“I love them,” I said, my gaze shifting between her and the painting. It was hard to look away from either. “The way you’ve captured the beach, the man and his music… I never… Well… How much for it?”
“Good choice,” she said, looking directly at my eyes. “He was much like you. You could be friends, I think. Quizás.”
“Who? This man, in the picture?”
“No, the man who… No, nada. It costs three hundred euros.”
Wow. Three hundred for a street painting? Yes, I had money, but… on the other hand, the painting was worth it.
She noticed my hesitation. “I can give it to you for two hundred and fifty.”
“No.” I shook my head and reached for my purse. “It should be three hundred. It’s worth it. Truly.”
She laughed and pulled the painting from the hanger, wrapping it quickly in brown paper. Her fingers moved with a quick dexterity that seemed almost otherworldly. “You have buen ojo, señor. Good eye. Many people, they look and say ‘costa massa, too much.’ They don’t see the music here, you know? They don’t feel it. They only see a picture. No. They don’t even see.”
As I handed her the money, my fingers brushed against hers. Her skin was warm and rough, her nails short and stained with the same vibrant paints that marked her clothes and skin. For a brief moment, her smile faltered, replaced by a look of mild surprise. A flicker of something else, something deeper, passed between us. Then it was gone, replaced by that familiar, sly smirk.
“Moltes gràcies.”
“I’m the one who’s grateful, Emmelia,” I said.
I took a look at the package in my hands. The painting wasn’t too big, but it was big enough that I couldn’t walk around carrying it all day. I guess I could head back to the hotel… But then, trying to fit it into my luggage, explaining it at the flight check-in… I almost had second thoughts, but then it hit me.
“Hey, can you send me that by mail? Malmö, Sweden.”
“¡No hay problema!” She took the package. “I can send it with Correos – it’ll take maybe a week or two. Where to?”
I handed her my business card. “This address. Please ship it at my expense, and don’t skimp on packaging.”
“D’acord, Daniel. Segur.” She nodded, then took her phone and quickly dialed my number. My phone buzzed. “Save my number, just in case. Ets un professional, si?” she winked.
“Sure,” I smiled. “You are a true artist, Emmelia. I’ve never seen anything like this.”
She seemed pleased with the compliment, yet somehow unimpressed at the same time. “Most people say that. But it’s not enough.”
“What’s not enough?”
“They say, and then they walk away. Compra. Camina.” She traced an imaginary path in the air with her paint-stained finger. “But they don’t get it, you know? They don’t feel the stories, they don’t get them whole. So… it’s not enough.”
“I think I understand,” I said, though I wasn’t sure I did. She talked really strange. “I really do.”
“Bé. Good.” She looked at my card again. “Daniel… what a strong name. Daniel, who knows what he’s doing, yes?”
I felt a strange warmth spread through my chest. “Something like that.”
“Genial! Bé, adéu!” She turned away without another word, already lost in conversation with the other artist again, their words a quickfire of pure Catalan I couldn’t follow. I stood there for a moment, the ghost of her touch still on my fingers, the phantom scent of weed and turpentine in the air, the promise of… something I could not name. I took one last look at her – at the way the afternoon sun caught the gold in her messy hair, at the confident set of her thin shoulders despite her ragged appearance – and then I turned and walked away, the feeling of her lingering in my mind like a half-remembered song.
***
The rest of my day was a blur. I walked through the narrow alleys of the Gothic Quarter, went to La Sagrera and back, but the ancient stone buildings and quaint shops seemed gray and lifeless after meeting her. I sat at an outdoor cervecería, sipping a cold beer, but the taste was flat on my tongue. Everywhere I looked, I saw flashes of her – the color of a woman’s scarf matched the shade of crimson in her beach painting, the sound of a street musician’s guitar echoed the melody I’d imagined in the artwork.
She had gotten under my skin, this wild, paint-stained hippie girl with the dirty feet and the ancient soul. Her name was Emmelia. I never met anyone with that name. I found myself whispering it to myself, the syllables foreign and yet strangely familiar on my tongue. I was a man of logic and order, a consultant who built plans and strategies for a living. She was chaos, a splash of vibrant color on my meticulously drawn black background.
As the sun began to set, casting lengthening shadows, my legs carried me back to Las Ramblas. I just wanted to walk through this lively place once more, breathe in its vibrant energy, which did not subside in the evening but rather intensified, before returning to the hotel. Well, who am I kidding? I hoped to see her one last time. Maybe, if I were lucky, she was still at her place selling her paintings…
I was lucky. Most artists had already packed up, their stalls now empty spaces on the pavement, waiting for tomorrow. But her little corner was still occupied. She was there, stuffing a large canvas into a huge portfolio bag with effort, her feet balanced on the uneven stones. There were just a couple of paintings left.
She saw me approaching, and a slow, lazy smile spread across her face. “Hola again, Daniel! I’m getting close to finished for the day, and… this is so heavy!”
Without thinking, I was at her side. “Necessita ajuda? Need some help?” I took the other end of the canvas from her hands. “Where does it go?”
Her smile widened. “Ah, un cavaller! Sí, there’s a small storeroom, not far away. Around the corner.”
It was indeed a small, dusty storeroom, squeezed between two tapas bars, smelling of damp brick and turpentine. It was barely bigger than a closet, and it was already crammed with art supplies, rolled-up canvases, and a stack of empty frames. Together, we maneuvered the last few paintings inside. She squeezed past me, her hip brushing against mine, and her scent – weed, sweat, paint, a trace of alcohol – made my head spin.
“Moltes gràcies!” She giggled, took my hand in her surprisingly strong grip, and pulled me out to the street. We almost ran into another artist, a chubby man carrying several canvases at once. “Ei, Jose, i adéu! Me’n vaig. Ens veiem demà. Podries, si us plau, tancar la porta després de tu?”
“Cap problema, Melia!”
He walked past us, breathing heavily, and we were left alone – well, sort of alone, but just us two at the empty spot in the evening crowd.
“Um…” I managed to say, feeling my face burning. I thought I was pretty good with the ladies, but now I felt like a dumb teenager who had fallen in love for the first time.
She laughed softly and took both my hands.
“Daniel, who knows what he’s doing… and who does not know what to do now, oi?” She looked at my face. “You’ve been walking here all day just to see me again, oi?”
My cheeks felt even hotter. “I… I just…” I was lost for words. I nodded.
“It’s okay.” She smirked, releasing my hands. I almost instantly missed the warmth and softness of her skin. I could not explain my behavior to myself. I’m not a fan of ‘love at first sight’, but it was pretty close to that. Or perhaps… infatuation. A huge, intense infatuation, unlike anything I had ever experienced.
“I also wanted to see you again.”
“And… I’m starving,” she said suddenly, the sly smirk back on her lips. “Would you like to treat the girl?”
“I… Of course.” I smiled a silly smile. Our night was just beginning! “But I’m not familiar with the place, lo siento. Do you have a favorite restaurant around here?”
“Molt!” She stood for a moment, pressing her finger to her lips. “¡Muy Buenas! Sí!” And she pulled me behind her into the crowd. Wow, what energy! “And on top of that, you won’t have to spend a fortune.”
Muy Buenas turned out to be a cozy restaurant and bar. Not far from Las Ramblas, but apparently not over-popular among tourists, the restaurant was still only three-quarters full. And the entire crowd cheered loudly when they saw Emmelia at the door.
“Are you a regular here?”
“Sort of.”
Laughing and blowing kisses to all sides, she led me to the free table in the corner and nodded to the waitress. The menu was in Catalan and Spanish only, but I didn’t need it: Emmelia simply waved her finger left and right, ordering the wine and a bunch of tapas for both of us in a fluent mix of two languages.
In her element among people, she seemed to be a queen of the bar, while for me, this place, its music, and the mixture of languages created some kind of chaotic beauty that made me slightly uncomfortable, but I was too drunk in love with her to bother. The food was incredible, the wine was cheap but really good, and the conversation was flowing easily and naturally. And somehow, despite my shyness just minutes ago, she made me feel confident and relaxed.
“You said something about people not feeling the stories,” I said cautiously. “What did you mean?”
“Ah, sí, this.” Emmelia leaned forward, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. The noise in the restaurant faded into the background. “All those things around… You can see the picture, you can hear the story, you know. But to feel the story… you must live it through. Esto sencillo.”
I shook my head. “You still aren’t making it clearer.”
“That’s because you are still only trying to listen and not to live. Però està bé, we still have plenty of time.”
I gave up trying to understand her. With a half-empty glass in my hands, I leaned back in my chair and shamelessly admired her. In the dim bar light, slightly drunk, with her top unfastening, showing the edge of a complex black and red tattoo on her shoulder, she looked even wilder, more tempting, than a few hours ago. More… accessible?
And, apparently, I was to her as well. The look she gave me was direct, appraising, and not at all shy. When the waitress came to clear away our plates, Emmelia’s hard bare toes touched my leg under the table, slowly, teasingly. She winked at me.
“Mm, you have very strong legs,” she observed. “From running, yes?”
“Not really,” I said, clearing my throat. I was trying to focus on what she said without paying attention to the trail of electric sparks she was leaving on my calf. “Squash. Sometimes. There’s a gym in my building. Um… Is it important?”
“Maybe.” She was smiling again, that mysterious, all-knowing smirk. “You won’t sleep at your hotel tonight, Daniel.”
My breath hitched in my throat. Her suggestion was so blunt, so direct, that it took me a moment to process it. Here I was, a thirty-five-year-old consultant, used to subtle negotiations and carefully worded proposals, and she had just cut right through the bullshit with one simple sentence. I looked at her, at her paint-stained fingers, at her dirty, bare feet, at her hair that smelled of weed and some other mysterious scent. And the rational part of me that was screaming about the dangers of spending a night with a crazy hippie girl in an unknown and not-so-safe city was subsiding, making way for another feeling. A primal, adventurous one.
“Where then?”
She shrugged. “At my place, of course. És el més senzill. It’s not far away.” And she completely unfastened her top. As you could expect, there was no bra underneath. She saw my stare and laughed, but not in a mocking way. More like she was enjoying it.
“Let’s go,” I said abruptly, throwing some crumpled bills onto the table to cover the tab. I didn’t wait for the change. I just wanted out of there, with her. She followed me, her laughter a bright, infectious melody that blended with the sounds of the night.
***
We didn’t go far. Emmelia led me through a maze of narrow streets into the depths of El Raval, so different from the bustling Las Ramblas. These were old, cobblestone alleys, lit by the warm glow of street lamps that cast long, dancing shadows. The sounds of the city faded away, replaced by the quiet hum of nocturnal Barcelona. I held her hand, her small, paint-stained fingers fitting perfectly into mine.
“Be careful,” she warned as we navigated a particularly dark patch. “There are potholes. Però sóc acostumat, I walk barefoot all the time. The stones, they know me.”
I watched her feet, thin and delicate yet moving with such confidence on the uneven surface. She moved through the dark like a cat, her body fluid and sure, while I stumbled in my expensive leather shoes. She never stumbled or slipped up.
“Aquí.” We stood before an old, dilapidated house – but a still inhabited one, there was light in the tall windows. “¡A lo más alto!” she said. “My studio is in the attic. The stairs here are steep, ho sento.”
When we reached the top, I had to stand for a while and catch my breath. Emmelia, on the other hand, looked fresh as if she hadn’t just run up eight long flights of stairs. She unlocked the only door on the landing with a key from her pocket and, with a theatrical flourish, threw it open.
“Benvingut al meu món.”
Her studio, her world… it was chaos, but the most beautiful chaos imaginable. The large room was steeply sloped on both sides, its peak nearly two stories high. There were canvases everywhere – on easels, leaning against walls, stacked carefully in corners. The room smelled strongly of oil paint, turpentine, weed, tobacco, and something else, something wild and elemental that I could only attribute to her. Paintings in various stages of completion were scattered about – a breathtaking study of a stormy sky, a portrait of a woman with piercing eyes, a surreal landscape with floating islands. This is where she lived and worked.
There was a mattress on the floor, covered with a mess of colorful blankets and pillows, and a small, low table with two chairs. On the table, there were empty wine bottles and coffee cups, an ashtray overflowing with cigarette and joint butts, and a few dirty plates. A mini-kitchen in the corner. A single naked bulb hung from a cord, casting a warm, intimate glow over the scene.
It was exactly what I expected. And more than I expected.
“Beautiful,” I said, and I meant it.
“És clar!” she said proudly. Then she threw her clothes to the floor. Right, she didn’t wear panties either. “First dibs on the shower!” And she hurried to the shower stall at the far end.
I followed her with my eyes. The shower was more of a partitioned corner, surrounded only by a translucent plastic that hid nothing. She didn’t bother to close it behind her; I was watching her silhouette under the running water. She sang something, a low, throaty Catalan tune, and then, for a minute, all noise ceased as she washed her hair – a quick rinse, no shampoo, just with water. Then she was out.
I was mesmerized. She was beautiful. Slender and firm, her tattooed skin seemed to have a glow of its own, even under the dim light. She looked both a slender teenager and much older at the same time, more like a timeless entity that had witnessed centuries. But the smile on her face was still a playful girl’s one.
“Your turn, cavaller,” she said, drying herself with a rough towel and throwing another at me. “And don’t forget to get naked while you’re at it. It’s more… comfortable to sleep, no?”
My clothes joined hers on the floor. When I emerged, I found her lying on the mattress, naked, exposed before the floor-to-ceiling window, not caring about possible eyes in the windows across the street. She propped herself up on her elbow, her hair still damp and tousled, a sly smile on her lips. Her soles were still black.
“What are you thinking?” she asked as I sat on the edge of the mattress, suddenly unsure of what to dare next. My cock, though, had no doubts about it.
“You are beautiful,” I said, looking at her. “And… shit! Condoms!”
“Forget them!” She wrapped my neck with both thin arms and pulled me to the mattress, on top of her.
“But… What if…”
“No et preocupis. Tot anirà bé,” she whispered.
Everything will be okay.
I stopped thinking.
***
We kissed passionately, pressing our naked bodies against each other. I squeezed and crushed her in my arms, and she did not yield to me in strength. It was a wild and passionate kiss that tasted of wine and marijuana, and I wanted to get deep into her so much that it hurt. Emmelia pulled away slightly, breathing heavily.
“You’re a good kisser,” she said. “I feel how much you wanted this. I wanted it, too.”
“I want you so much,” I admitted.
“Bé. Then show me how much.”
No more talk. Our hands explored each other’s bodies, a frenzy of touch and taste. Her hips bucked against me with a primal rhythm. Then I took her. We didn’t waste any more of our energies with foreplay: we were both ready from the dinner and the climb up the stairs. My cock, already hard, found her opening without any guidance. And… I have to admit, that girl, that hippie artist girl, the one I met on Las Ramblas this morning, took me with ease, sighing something in Catalan, her nails dug into my shoulders. She was unbelievably wet and open.
“You are… wow,” I said as I pushed deep.
“Tu també,” Emmelia’s hips started to move under mine.
It felt incredibly natural and incredibly right. My cock was sliding in her with ease, rubbing against her tightening inner walls, and our movements soon found a perfect harmony. Her legs wrapped around my waist. I grabbed her shoulders. We did not care to talk or to caress; our common focus was to get deeper, closer. I looked at her face, but her eyes were closed; her head was thrown back; a look of pure bliss on her face. I’d never seen such total abandon. And I loved it.
“Bé… bé…” she whispered as our motions got faster, our skins slapping against each other’s and the mattress creaking underneath us. Her moans were getting longer, her breathing hoarser.
“Vine… Vine, Daniel… Avant… Avant,” her whispering became louder as her body shuddered in a spasm of a powerful orgasm. Her walls convulsed around my dick, and that drove me crazy, too. I thrust a few more times – hard and deep – before exploding inside her. I cried out something unintelligible and just let go. My whole body, the whole world, the whole universe went in a flash of a single, powerful, blinding white explosion behind my eyelids. I collapsed onto her, my head on her heaving chest. She held me tight. I’d never experienced anything like this.
When I came to my senses, lying on my back, she was humming under her breath by my side.
“Mmm,” I whispered, looking at her with a question.
“És boní.” She reached my chest and began caressing it with her thin fingers. “I needed it so much. Catch your breath, and we’ll do it again.”
“What? Melia, I love you, but I just can’t…”
She laughed.
“Tú puedes, y lo harás.”
Her hand slid down to my crotch, still soaked with her juices, and I felt my cock hardening again under her touch.
Our second time was slower. No more frantic thrusts; it was long and languid, her body moving beneath me in waves of delight. She rode me as well, her feet planted on either side of my hips, her head thrown back, her small breasts bouncing. Then she tensed and gave out a hoarse cry, while I held her tightly in my arms, feeling her convulsions deep in her core. Then I entered her from behind, gripping her hips, pulling her onto me, watching her back arch and hearing her gasp in sync with my thrusts. Each position was a discovery, a new landscape of pleasure.
“You feel so different from the others,” I said later, when we were lying together, her head resting on my stomach. “Especial. How do you do this?”
“It’s a complicated story.” She turned on her stomach, propping her chin on my belly, her gaze fixed on mine. The look in her dark, deep-set eyes was no longer playful or sly, but more intense, as if she was studying me, reading the lines of my soul. “But you are already living it through. Would you like to know it all?”
I bated my breath.
“Yes.”
She smiled. “But you’ll have to pay for it. You know, there were those putes sagrades in ancient Greece, the Aphrodite’s priestesses. You had to fuck them if you wanted something from the Goddess. You must offer me the same tribute if you want to hear my story. I’ll be telling you only while you’ll be fucking me.”
I looked at her in disbelief.
“Is it a long story? I’m not sure if I…”
She put her palm on my lips. I kissed it. “On the third time, you are ready. Tú podrás. Enter me. Slowly. Slowly… Ohhh…”
And she told me her story, interrupted by moans and occasional convulsions.
***
You know, Daniel, I was not always called Emmelia. But I was always about the same, like that, a wild noia jove who liked to draw, to kiss boys, and to run barefoot across fields and through old towns. My parents did not care too much. One day, I’ve set out on a trip to Delphi. It was too attractive a bargain to pass up. I was only eighteen. So there I was, this boho kid, walking among the ancient ruins, my sketchbook filling up with drawings… I liked it very much there. And I got my tattoo. The one on my shoulder. See it?
(Oh, sí… See me… See how I am shaking… Move a little faster…)
That’s the crazy part of the story, Daniel. It was a hot day. I walked down the street where houses alternated with ancient ruins, and I saw that sign, ΤΑΤΟΥΑΖ. I already had a few tattoos, so I thought it’d be fun to get one more from the trip. I entered. It was a small room, and the tattoo artist was a mature, even elderly woman. Strange, oi? It’s usually a job for young people. She didn’t ask me anything, she just looked at me and said: “Finally, you’re here. Let’s sit down and get started.” I thought she said that. I’m no Greek expert, though.
Her tattoo gun was so ancient, oi? It buzzed so softly, with a strange, musical hum. And the pain… it was sweet, not the usual sting. And the ink she used… I don’t know what was in it, but as she drew the lines on my shoulder, something flowed into me. Like a current of warm honey filling up my veins, you know? Something very old and very powerful. It was like a memory… not mine, but one that now belonged to me.
She was drawing so fast. The straight Greek key pattern, the spirals… And the name in Greek letters. ΕΜΜΕΛΙΑ. She put it right in the center of the design. When she was done, she didn’t put any bandage on it. Just blew on it. The skin cooled instantly. Then she took my hand and led me to the door. She said, “Να είσαι καλά, Εμμέλια.” I only learned later what it meant: “Be well, Emmelia.”
(I’m getting so close… I’m almost there… I’m almost there… Deixa’m anar, deixa’m anar… Let me go… Estic…
She breathed fast for several moments, then continued.)
“It’s not my name,” I said.
“It’s yours now.”
The ancient Greek letters spelling my name, ΕΜΜΕΛΙΑ, veus? The drawing on my skin is supposed to be an ancient magic diagram, she told me, that turns me into someone divine. I thought she said that.
And that very night, something happened. My body changed. I was no longer… normal. I could not contain my energy. And I had this vivid dream of the Pythia, the Oracle of Delphi. In the dream, she told me that I am chosen to be the tenth Muse now, a new one that the old gods made to guard over painting and drawing. She told me my womb will not bring children anymore, but ideas. Inspirations for new masterpieces, for myself and others. She told me that my purpose, my destiny is to create new things every day… and for this, to be impregnated daily, every day by a new man.
(Impregnated! Oh! That is such a strange word, oi? Don’t you think? But that’s how it is.)
Two days later, I was back in Barcelona. I took out my old pictures, and I started to paint. It was… it was like I was possessed by another spirit. The pictures were so… so alive. People wanted to buy them. A lot. The money was good, so I was able to rent this studio and live my bohemian life. I was happy. But the inspiration… it ran out. After a few weeks. That’s when I understood what my dream meant. No inspiration equals no creation, entendre? And there is only one specific way I can refill it, you know?
(The last piece, Daniel… The final push… Make me come again, and I will be yours…)
I’ve done it hundreds of times since then. Each day is a new man, a new story, a new baby of art. I don’t know these men beforehand, not really. Maybe I’ve seen them on the street, maybe they just passed by. Not all of them were nice. But the sex must be a surprise, an unknown territory. Like my paintings, each one is a journey into a new world. And the next morning, the inspiration comes back, flowing through me like a river. I take my brush and the canvas, and it paints itself.
Aaahhh… Daniel…
***
We both could not hold it up anymore, and at last we collapsed, our bodies tangled, sticky, and spent. There was no more talking for a long while. I lay on the mattress, Emmelia’s warm, naked body draped over my chest, her hair a wild halo around my face. I could still smell her – the wild, elemental scent of weed, and paint, and sweat, and sex. The room was a mess of discarded clothes and scattered art supplies. Outside, the city of Barcelona was sleeping, or maybe it was just beginning to wake up again, but in here, in this little attic studio, it felt like we were the only two people in the world.
I was trying to process it all. A Muse. A real, literal Muse. And she had chosen me. Or rather, my cock had been the chosen one for the night. This was… madness. Beautiful, sweet, erotic madness. The rational part of me, the consultant from Malmö, was screaming in protest. This was impossible. But the evidence was warm and breathing in my arms, her skin still flushed from our lovemaking, her inner thighs slick with my seed.
And she was so… casual about it. As if she’d just told me she was a baker and needed flour to make bread.
“Bona nit…” She rubbed her face against my chest.
“Good night…”
I slept like a log, and my dreams were a mix of Emmelia – in them, she was naked on Barcelona streets, strolling and painting – and ancient Greek temples. I woke up from her lips on my neck and her fingers on my cock, and we had two more rounds of primal sex before the morning light made its way into the studio.
***
The morning was as strange as the night. I was expecting awkwardness, maybe a hasty goodbye, an exchange of promises with a polite but firm understanding that this was a one-time thing. Instead, she acted as if we’d been sharing this attic for years. She hummed while making coffee in her tiny kitchen, the rich aroma mingling with the persistent scent of turpentine and paint.
“T’agrada?” she asked, handing me a chipped mug of strong, bitter coffee. “Do you like the coffee?”
“It’s perfect, gràcies.”
She sat on the floor, cross-legged, at the end of the mattress. She took a sip from her own mug, her gaze thoughtful. “You’ll remember last night, oi? The story I told you. It’s real, tot veritat.”
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
“The story is told now,” she continued. “L’oferta, you know… it has been paid.” She winked at me. “So you’re free to go whenever you want. No obligation. You’ve done your service to the gods, and you’ve done it bé.”
I stared at her, my own coffee forgotten in my hands.
“Could I… Will I see you again?”
She shrugged. “Why not? You are a nice man, Daniel. I won’t bear your paintings anymore, but I’d love to hang out sometime, i follar, just for fun, too.” She smirked.
I returned her smirk. “I suppose you have dozens of men orbiting you that way. Considering your lifestyle.”
“¡Pues claro, cómo no!”
We laughed and kissed, for one last time.
***
I went back to my job and my usual routine, but it wasn’t easy. After that night and this morning, the world seemed to have lost some of its color. I found a drawing course and started taking lessons, which went surprisingly well and easily for me, since I’d never been able to draw anything more than a stick figure.
Even before my “Old Guitarist on the Beach” has arrived, I’ve got a message from Emmelia. A photo of the painting. In the same vibrant Emmelia’s style, it depicted a couple dancing. A naked, slender hippie girl with hair flying to the sides was being passionately lifted and spun in the air by a strong, handsome man. They were surrounded by darkness, but they themselves, along with the floor beneath their feet, seemed to emit light.
And a small message. “Your baby arrived. És teu.”
I didn’t think twice. I replied, “I’m buying it. How much? Just give me your account details.”
“Daniel! Sempre el professional!” I could almost hear her giggling. “Three hundred, as usual.”
And she gave me her account.
Fortunately, my job required me to take regular business trips to Spain in general and Barcelona in particular, so it wasn’t our last meeting with Emmelia. But that’s another story, to be told another time.
