“What’s more, this… is my little girl Carmina,” my pleased father grinned as he acquainted me with Miguel. I was nineteen-years of age and it was the finish of summer.

“Pleasant to meet you, Miguel,” I reacted, to some degree abashed.

Wearing a quite, white dress and my hair tied up in a lace, I’ll always remember the way Miguel took a gander at me the first occasion when we met. In any case, you know how it is; great, minimal rich young lady meets good looking, youthful terrible kid and she resembles a moth to a fire. He was eighteen-years of age, with a radiance in his dull eyes and taking a shot at my dad’s immense swathes of farmland up in the slopes. My dear father had spent the day administering the reap, figs in a single field, almonds in another when I’d gone to call him into lunch in his most loved spot – an outside table set in the shade of the desert plant.

“Maybe we’ll meet once more, Carmina” was Miguel’s guaranteed answer.

His eyes looked over my agile adolescent legs, my wide-eyes, my full-mouth, my lips separated marginally with admission of breath as I enlisted this seething youth’s want for me… A want that, right up ’til the present time, has not left. What’s more, can just ever be satisfied in the warmth of the sun…

Indeed, even now, Miguel likes me sporting white for our adventures outside. It’s virginal he says. He inclines toward me looking pure with my hair tied up in a braid finish with an energetic strip – it’s reminiscent of the first run through, obviously. However he knows now that I’m a long way from pure, particularly when I’m with him. It’s a long ways from my typical look of city-design chic that I wear in Madrid… however when I’m back to visit my dad, and to see Miguel, I recognize what influences him to tick. The landowner’s girl and the farmhand… that is the manner by which we started and that is the secret…