Perdona Si Te: Llamo Cayetano Raquel Tirado Fe...

"I am so, so sorry," Raquel stammered, frantically grabbing napkins. "I was looking at my phone, and I just—"

She had bumped into him—literally—outside a coffee shop in Salamanca. Her iced latte had done a graceful, tragic arc onto his suede loafers. Perdona Si Te Llamo Cayetano Raquel Tirado Fe...

Raquel paused her scrubbing. The accent, the Barbour jacket draped over his arm, the leather weekend bag—he was a walking stereotype. "I am so, so sorry," Raquel stammered, frantically

"Since you've effectively branded me for the afternoon," Borja said, gesturing to the coffee stain, "the least you can do is let me buy you a replacement. One that stays in the cup this time?" Raquel paused her scrubbing

As they walked toward the metro, the girl from the outskirts and the boy from the golden mile, the labels started to feel a little less permanent. Maybe he was a Cayetano, and maybe she was exactly who she thought she was, but under the Madrid sky, they were just two people walking toward a better cup of coffee.

The orange glow of the Madrid sunset bounced off the glass buildings of Paseo de la Castellana, but for Raquel, the view was mostly blocked by the back of a very expensive, very well-tailored navy blazer.