LAST DAY IN MADRID

In the hostel lounge, Talia hunched over in the wire chair next to the mural of fish-shaped eyes, splashed with muted green, orange, and yellow. She took out her red wallet which doubled as a good luck charm. She read that red attracts abundance which she immediately needed. She counted the euros three times, alloted an amount for the cab to the airport, one meal, payment for the last day’s lodging, and admission to the Museo de Reina Sofia, a mile walk away through Retiro Parque. She savored the buttery but hardened, almond croissant left over from the day before. Her luxury for this day was a cafe americano. Still hungry, she reached into her back pack for the stale almonds in the zip pocket. During the stay, her persistent worry was being stuck in Spain without resources.

Talia’s escape to Spain was planned in two frantic days, two weeks after she left Jadon, three weeks after he pinched her face during an argument about her enrollment in an art class. She wept all day after the bruises appeared on her cheeks. For days, she packed her slight possessions in bank boxes and black plastic trash bags while Jadon worked or smoked pot in the garage. She triaged her efforts, prioritzing her art supplies and books and her vintage clothes. She stop packing when her car filled up. The day she walked out the door, Jadon screamed promises and threats.

Talia descended to her childhood home and the room of her teenage years, to her mother. Each day, Talia forced herself to eat. Each night, as she struggled to sleep, she read to ease the grief and rumination on the fear and hurt. Picasso’s War, the assigned book in art history class, became a proxy for the class that Jadon forbade her to attend. The day she finished the book, a dream took hold, a fantasy to ease her pain. The fantasy turned into a To Do list: 1) Sell car to “We Buy Junk Cars”; 2) Sell vintage clothes on Poshmark; 3) Pawn engagement ring; 4) Buy plane ticket to Spain; 5) Stand in awe before Guernica. The warnings of family and friends about the cost of the trip did not deter Talia from checking off the list.

The hostel door locked behind her as a mild, cool autumn breeze, chilled her cheeks. All she possesed was contained in the rolling carryon and her backpack. Mentally, she prepared herself for sleeping in the airport that night. As her suitcase clacked along the cobblestones, the carnival of colors in the trees of the promenade distracted her thoughts of deprivation. The wafting smell of roasting chestnuts did not help her hunger pangs.

The glow of the glass, stone, and metal of the Museo de Reina Sofia created a serene ambiance like a desert mirage as Talia approached the visage. She lined up dutifully behind chattering school children at the door, checked her belongings, payed the 12 euros, heart pounding.

A sea of children crowded around the painting floating on a blue velvet curtain. The waves of children moving across the stanchions protecting the space did not detract for the austere grandeur of the flat, vibrant, screaming statement. Talia transfixed on the bull, the contorted limbs, the shrieking mother. To the right of the bull, a dove appeared on a cracked wall through which a bright light from the outside shines. As the children moved on, Talia moved closer, out of the darkness of the room.

Talia used her last 50 euros on the taxi to the airport-no money left for a last meal in Madrid before the plane departed. Check mark.