Barcelona

My toes are damp from Twilight hour spent on the deserted beach. Calls of delight drift my way occasionally, jarring my trail of thoughts. I sit at a round table, just off the beach, my skirt damp from the tide. A continuous blur of colours pass, excited babbles of conversation, high heels clacking along the way. Inside the club, glass after glass of cocktails are passed over the bar in exchange for a few Euros. 
Clack. Clack. Clack. 
Babble. Babble. 
Clink. 
I blow out smoke, and look up (too-late) to see a fairly young Indian guy, a carrier bag full of cans in his hand, eyes now red courtesy of my cigarette smoke. 
“Ah, Lo siento!” My apology is sincere, but my Spanish isn’t great. “I’m so sorry.” 
“No, it’s ok, Miss.” His accent is thick with broken English. He holds his bag higher, gestures to the contents inside. “You want can?” 
My mouth is already forming into an apologetic smile, my head half-tilted when I notice the holes in his trousers. His feet are bare on the sand. 
“One Euro. For you, six can, four Euro,” he persists. 
I gather my change; count the coins in my palm. “I’ll take one can, but here’s four Euros.” 
He accepts my generosity with a flash of his boyish smile and gratefully takes my money in exchange for a can of lukewarm beer. 
He bids me goodnight with a respectful nod, and continues on his quest, his flat feet rough on the concrete, carrier bag dangling by his side. 
I watch him cautiously approach a group of English girls, their heels sky-high and dresses skin-tight. 
“Beer for you, lady?” he addresses one in particular. 
“Nah, you’re alright,” she throws back, her eyes cold. 
“Only one Euro, miss-,” 
“Fuck off, you tramp,” another spits, followed by a torrent of foul language. They laugh as he ambles off, tail between legs. A group of lads pass, wolf-whistle; just like that the girls are hot on their heels, the cheap bottle of wine they are sharing quickly downed and chucked onto the beach. 
I can’t tear my eyes away from the discarded bottle of wine, a stain on a blank canvas. It is still early, but I know that hours later the beach will be littered with more cans, empty cigarette packets... 
Further along the beach, it is beautiful. Hidden around the corner, it hasn’t yet been discovered by tourists and remains a favourite among the locals. 
My thoughts go back to those English girls. Their language, attire, and attitudes. No doubt in the coming hours they will be having un-protected, drunken sex for free. Tonight they will give their bodies readily to any taker, self-respect just another word in the dictionary. 
And here I am selling mine for a living. 

Time up. I finish my cigarette and walk back the way I have come. My can of lukewarm beer sits unopened on the table.