Soul Fire

his back to me, a black apron tied tight around his waist, and blond curls brushing against his shoulders. Is that the cute one Javier was talking about?
And if it is, what the hell will I say to him?
    BANG!
    What the hell? The explosion behind me makes my eardrums sting. Yet the waiter hasn’t flinched at all.
    I turn round, but there’s no car in flames and no assassin running away. I hear giggling. There’s a smell like autumn, and then I realise: fireworks. I should have thought of it
sooner, but it feels all wrong to be letting them off on a midsummer’s afternoon in a Spanish street.
    Two of the small boys who were playing football appear from the shadows. As they run away, they throw something. This time I hear the whine but before I can move, another firecracker explodes
less than ten metres from me. Loud and so bright it seems to burn a hole in my vision.
    In the café, the waiter turns round this time. Dirty blond hair frames a tanned face, and his eyes are denim blue. Cute? Yep. Despite the temporary damage to my sight, I’d
say I’ve found Javier’s waiter.
    He beckons me inside. Everything seems to be moving too quickly. I want to turn round, buy myself time to work out what I should and should’t say. But I can’t back away now. I push
the door open.
    ‘Hi,’ he says. ‘What can I get you – late lunch, coffee?’ His accent is Australian.
    ‘Hi. How did you know . . .’
    ‘. . . that you speak English? You haven’t been in town long, have you, sweetheart?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Don’t get stressed about it. I could only tell because you’re too pale to be a local. Get some sun while you’re here, right? Sun makes you happy. As does cake. I believe
that this seat is all yours.’ And he points at the chair in the window and hands me a menu.
    I shake my head. ‘Already know what I’m having. Your famous chocolate brownie, with ice cream on the side, please.’
    ‘Famous, eh? The chef will be pleased to hear that. Anything to drink?’
    ‘Some tap water.’
    He shakes his head. ‘I wouldn’t. Seriously. I promise it’s not me trying to rip you off. The tap’s unspeakable. Only bad thing about Barcelona. Well, that and the
tourists.’ He winks at me. ‘I can do you a good deal on a bottle of still.’
    ‘Fine.’
    He takes my order to the kitchen. He’s broad and big, a surfer dude, I guess. Unless that’s just me thinking all Australians are surfer dudes. But was he also Javier’s
first love? His only love?
    ‘So, what are you doing in beautiful Barca?’ He pronounces the c as a soft hiss. ‘Don’t mind chatting, do you? It’s quiet today. They’re all out buying bloody
firecrackers and balaclavas for tomorrow night.’
    ‘Seriously? Is it really dangerous, the fire run?’
    He sits down opposite me, on the arm of the other leather chair. ‘Depends on your definition. They are crazy about fire. Kids are given firecrackers almost before they can walk. A
nation of pyromaniacs. Still, Australia and England are nations of alcoholics, right, and that is nowhere near as pretty as fireworks.’
    ‘We’re here for the weekend.’
    ‘We?’ He pretends to look around him. ‘You and your invisible mates, right?’
    ‘They’re sightseeing. Shopping. I wasn’t in the mood.’
    ‘A girl who isn’t always in the mood for shopping? Wow! If only I was interested in girls, we’d be perfect for each other.’
    So he is gay. ‘I’m Alice.’
    He holds out his hand. ‘Gabriel. Like the angel. But everyone calls me Gabe.’ A bell rings. ‘That’ll be your brownie.’
    By the time he brings it to me, butter-coloured ice cream is already melting into a pool around the warm cake.
    ‘Enjoy,’ says Gabe, putting my desert down in front of me. He goes off to clear a table, while I stare at the bowl. It smells amazing, but my appetite’s gone.
    I know I must say something before the moment is gone, but what? Gabe hands the bill to a Spanish mother and daughter who are the only other customers in the café. He’s all smiles
until they leave but then he scowls.
    ‘You know what I said to you about the one bad thing in Barcelona? There’s another one. The locals never bloody tip.’ He stops. ‘You OK? Don’t tell me you
don’t like the brownie. Chef will commit hara-kiri with his truffle fork.’
    ‘It’s not that. Gabe . . . could I ask you something?’
    ‘Sure.’ He sits back down again. ‘Though if you were expecting a hash brownie, I think you’re a