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Chapter twenty two, Smells Like Mean Spirit YOU CAN'T SAY THAT ANYMORE.
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TWO WEEKS EARLIER
"WE SHOULD STAY HERE FOREVER." He mused, stopping his browsing of the menu to admire the modest restaurant's surreal sea view. It was night out, and his eyes no longer functioned all that well in the dark, but even the blindest of blind men could see that the waves were showing off beneath the moon's silver spotlight.
They were now a month into their trip, and Marbella was proving itself to be deserving of many heaven-comparing monikers. Granted, the couple had dubbed it paradise before their plane even touched land (It was a three hour trip from London, and they passed the time by exchanging loving whispers and sweet kisses, only ever stopping to admire the glassy shores – Ada got the window seat for the sake of the better view, and Roy got the seat to her left for the very same reason; she watched the seascape, he watched her.)
It was beautiful, Marbella. Rich in culture and generally quite grand. They spent the first week of their stay in a villa by the sea, overlooking the thronged beach, before then moving to Old Town for tamer lodging. Which was not to say that they abandoned the beach aspect of their trip. In fact, the modest property where they now resided was less than ten minutes away from the coast; they walked past bounteous orange trees, and many flower-draped terraces, and gazpacho stands run by the sweet elderly, and aged buildings predating the Renaissance period, just to get there.
The walk was always worth it.
This whole trip was, really.
"We can't stay forever." Ada snorted. "They close at, like, midnight."
The city was a party hub for many, and it was always teeming with life during the nighttime, so, looking to profit, many restaurants operated in a way that accommodated sporadic appetites. Some even stayed open till dawn, plating and serving dinner. But this establishment, quaint and family run, chose to base their hours on the schedule of regular locals rather than highly exuberant tourists.
