Roger Collis

He has a cool villa in a green suburb of Madrid. Twenty minutes from the cacophony of the Gran Via. At the end of a pale pink drive of dusty gravel. Among orange trees and the stately swish of water sprinklers under a big fat sun.
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She fell into my eyes one summer Sunday when the Swissair steward brought her up front of the Caravelle to sit by me at the window seat. Locks of flaxen hair framing a soft bronze smile. And carelessly gathered up on top of her head in a loose bun. She squeezed past me into her place smelling like an enchanted wood. An anarchic visitation. Spare a risqué thought for those ripe melons tipped no doubt with little gold stars. Naturally I looked nonchalant and relaxed but felt the need to slip my hand under my shirt to feel what the heart was doing. I could feel it pounding in my ears. On this bright afternoon in Copenhagen peopled by so many slender goddesses.
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