“What does manchego mean?” Dorian asked, eyebrows raised, when our coffees had been laid before us – with a clatter and a ding, the spoons already in the cups, the milk already stirred; very odd place.
“It’s a cheese,” Rafa replied, frowning, removing the piece of dripping cutlery from his drink. “Why do you ask?”
“It’s very curious. I was queuing in the supermarket today and a girl was there. She was pretty. Very pretty, really. I would say 25 years old. Dark hair. Light yellowish skin.”
“Like manchego then?” Rafa grinned.
“Her skin was light and yellowish, you say? That is what manchego is like. It looks much like cheddar. Only it’s softer. Fleshier.”
“That must explain it!” Dorian declared, clicking the fingers of one hand. “You see, this girl was dressed very lightly. A tee-shirt. A very short skirt. Her backside was round and quite large in proportion to the rest of her body. I know it’s vulgar to talk about these things. I mention it only because of what she went on to do.
“When she had been served. she turned and smiled at me. Naturally, I smiled back. She was very pretty, as I say. And then she put her bags down on the floor and reached up her skirt with one hand.”
“In front of others?”
“Yes. This was in the supermarket. There were two women behind me. This seemed to matter nothing to her. She scrunched up a handful of flesh from one of her yellow buttocks and wobbled it, her eyes still set on me, saying, “Manchego? Manchego para ti?”
“And what did you do?”
“I shook my head and told her I didn’t understand. I told her I was English. And then she said, “English? And you are not hungry? No manchego?” She seemed quite offended by my response, and then she left the store. I looked at the women behind me. They were both frowning. So I shrugged at them, as if to make clear I also didn’t understand what had just happened. And then they said disbelievingly, “You are not hungry?””