We walk in silence to the gap in the cacti and prickly-pear hedge behind the house, go through it, and start to trek across the field. Rainwater is still streaming along the ground, running in gleaming rivulets along the side of the track, forming pools and puddles. The sun feels hot now, and steam is rising to form a soft, lovely mist in the air.
We walk along side by side. It crosses my mind that we could hold hands, but I know we won't, not yet. I'm so aware of him beside me, his easy walk, the way his arms move...it would be too much to touch him. "What's the place we're heading for?" I ask.
"El Fain", he says. "It's wonderful. It's a big old finca-- it does lunch a few times in the week, and always at the weekend. They know me-- I've worked there, serving at the tables. It gets busy on Saturdays, but they'll find us a place."
"Is it far?"
"Another ten minutes, maybe. Are you okay? It's far quicker to walk this back way than try to drive, the roads'll be flooded again..."
"Juan, I'm fine. This is blissful."
It is, too. Everywhere I look there's beauty. The leaves are dropping shining drips of water, and the earth smells so good as it soaks it all up. Our shoes are caked with orange-colored mud. I'm waiting for what he's going to say to me, and I'm starting to feel really, really hungry.
