Ramo Buchón

Love here is like a macho man in a leather jacket: loud, generous, and with a slight smell of petrol. Flowers are not from the supermarket, but a whole ramo buchón, so that the neighbours know who the king of romance is. The words are simple, but there is a strange warmth in them: they seem to be about Dior, Cheyenne and PlayStation, but between the lines there is a desire to be needed, even with the shadow of the past and a somewhat dubious reputation. There is no subtlety in this courtship, but there is honesty - the kind where ‘don't be afraid, I'm here’ sounds louder than any serenade. And perhaps this is where true tenderness lies - under the bonnet of a pickup truck and the sound of brass instruments in the night.