Inferno

eight | the road block

Fantasies aren't always as fulfilling when they come true. Whether it's an illusion of the mind or acceptance of the fact that this isn't a goal anymore to be achieved— we tend to paint the reality sepia and reserve the colours for our day dreams. I've seen this happen, experienced it when publishers weren't lining up for my second one, or even responding to my mails, but today's different.

Spain, just as much of a beautiful thought, is also a maddening actuality and better, and you only realise it while passing those curvy lanes. Gothic architecture on both sides, street lanterns flickering, and a certain golden touch to the sky; that's Barcelona.

Chase kept to his promise, and we entered into the city before it was half past eleven, with him revelling in glory and forgetting all about how he's supposed to be miserable about this trip. Although, I fail to understand how someone cannot want to be in a place like this, where every corner shop, every person walking by, seems to be a story yet to unravel. Plus, there's the delicious food and sight seeing to keep you engaged, and I know this because I've created a little guide board for this trip on my phone. "La Fontaine."

"What's that?" Chase catches onto my trial and error as I try to get the name of the famed restaurant right. I can see his reflection; his aviators stooped down to his freckled nose as he peeks into my phone.

"Nothing, just a little prep for while I'm here." I won't mind a long stay, but I also can't afford a delay with what I'm here for. It's safe to say, that thing is the axis to my spinning world at the moment. "Wait, I never asked, are you here for one of those location recs before writing a book? I've heard writers do that for realism."

He's not entirely wrong, but I honestly haven't seen many people in my community, get out of their chairs for something more than pretzels to help their writing. "Not exactly, no. I actually wanted to discuss my recent material with an established author and publisher."

Saying it out loud takes some burden off of it, but the possibilities of the meeting going haywire are still very much alive and making me an anxious neck scratching wreck. "That sounds amazing," his enthusiasm crosses mine, briefly making me smile as I note how his fingers are tapping to the tunes of working by Tate McRae, on the steering. "And you say your life's boring. Believe me, if you're not processing a company's quarterly data into pretty graphs, your life has already touched elite."

I want to say it doesn't sound bad, except just the thought wants to make me go to sleep. "I can only imagine. So, is that why you're all grumpy about Spain? You've got a business thing to do?" He mentioned his father wanting him to come here, and his detest for the company is evident, so it's an easy explanation.

"Yeah, kind of," he doesn't delve into it, probably unaware of half the thing— the penguins and polar bears situation repeating itself. "Where are you staying, again?"

"Nina's Galleria," I quote off the brochure in my hand, the little inn's name circled in red months ago. It's clean, reasonable, and there's a view of the city skyline from the balcony, so it couldn't be more perfect. The place is also near by to the publishing office, although I wouldn't mind travelling an hour or two even if that's what it took. I've laboured so much to make it here, what's some more trouble.

"I can't believe I'm here again," his breaths shaky and eyebrows squinted, I can tell the gloom's setting in. "I swear I've fallen head first onto one of these streets, but they all look same with the damn cobblestones and brown apartments."

Looks like he wasn't kidding around with the embarrassing memories, and as much as I want to hear every detail of it, my discomfort over the beginnings–I was wasted, drunk to my head, intoxicated—isn't any less. I try not to think and form pictures, instead looking out on the road and lighting up when bold  letters painted in daisy white pop out on the brown building. Guess he was right.