What To Forgive

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This beauty. Her beauty, the beauty of the night, of Barcelona in May.

He ran his finger along the rim of the wine glass until it began to chime.

“My father will not be moved. I am sorry.”

Her eyes glistened, but he saw no tears.

Another time he would have said this was because of her bravery, but he now knew the truth.

She did not love him.

“He is Catalan, as you know. Memories run deep with us. He does not forgive.”

“Do you, Rosa?” surprised he was speaking at all.

“What to forgive? Of you? Of anyone?”