Richard

Costa Blanca, 2012

Coffee with Irmy and Hans, the neighbours. Stroopwafels, Dutch television, the particular furniture of people who brought their country with them intact.

I was comfortable in that atmosphere the way you’re comfortable in a language you grew up in but no longer speak every day.

The doorbell announced a bridge friend — an old tiny lawyer, immaculate and gay, the kind of man who has always known exactly which room he belongs in. Behind him walked someone who belonged in a completely different room. Rugged. Street charm. The kind of appeal that presents itself as uncomplicated.

The lawyer held him on a leash — jobs from his wealthy circle, the currency of patronage dressed as friendship.

I paid a modest price for help moving a couch and a carpet. The thrill of having him sitting on the other side of the couch I solved by taking him upstairs. He didn’t expect that.

The next encounter was in a neighbouring village. Coffee, a chat, and then we were in our cars, chasing each other through the outskirts, rallying toward an industrial area where we kissed in the way that reminds you of being sixteen — on the hood of a car with an intensity that was weight-losing, taking my appetite even as it made me fly.

Later, a Dutch friend mentioned, in passing, that he comes with his wife to the Dutch church in Denia.

The hammer.

In the same moment the hammer fell, the inventory assembled itself: jewellery. An iPad. A laptop. Small things, portable, easy to sell.

I counted. I understood.

© 2026 I.Ph. de Lange All rights reserved. Published by CYcrds OÜ.