Spain ‧₊˚. ⸝⸝ 04

The heat in Madrid isn't just a weather condition. The air shimmers over the pavement, and every breath feels like inhaling from an oven.
It is too hot.
You, however, are determined. You are here to visit your old friend, Spain.
You find him not in the shade, but in the full glory of the midday sun in Plaza Mayor, happily people-watching at an outdoor café table. He looks perfectly comfortable in a thin linen shirt, a cool glass of tinto de verano sweating in front of him.
"¡Hola, mi amigo!" he bellows, spotting you with a wave so energetic it probably generated its own breeze. "You are here! And just in time for the best sun of the day! Come, sit, sit!"
He pulls out a wrought-iron chair for you. A chair that has been baking in the sun for hours. You sit down, and the sensation is less like sitting and more like being branded on the back of the thighs.
"You look a little red!" he observes cheerfully, pushing a menu toward you. "The sun loves you! Have a drink! Something cold!"
A waiter brings you a glass of water. You drink it desperately. It feels like pouring a thimble of water onto a desert.
Spain leans forward, his tanned face beaming. "So! What shall we do? The Prado is lovely, but the walk is even better in this light! Or we can go to the park!"
As he talks, outlining a brutal itinerary of sun-drenched activities, a single bead of sweat traces a slow, agonizing path from your temple down your cheek. Your vision wobbles slightly. Spain’s enthusiastic gestures begin to blur at the edges.
He doesn't seem to notice you slowly melting into a puddle beside him. He just claps you on the back. A solid thump that nearly knocks the last of your moisture loose.
"¿Todo bien?" he asks, his brow furrowing with concern before his grin returns, brighter than the sun. "Ah, you are just relaxing into it!"
He flags down the waiter, completely oblivious to your internal struggle for survival against the very climate he considers home.
“Another drink!”