Sangria

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Five years ago, I met a boy in Madrid. That sentence—true as it may be—makes our origin story sound a lot more romantic than it actually is. Our eyes didn’t lock from across the floor of a crowded flamenco bar; I had no rose in my hair, and he had none clutched between his teeth; we didn’t spend hours holding hands and whispering sweet nothings to each other, dwarfed by the shadow of the Reina Sofía and, like, a matador. We didn’t, in fact, even start dating until several months later, when we’d both returned to the city where we actually lived: loud, dirty, less-than-exotic New York.  Continue reading

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