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Felisabel drove me home, as usual, and she told me she had been thinking of me the night before. How so, I asked? She went with a few friends for tapas in Plaza de Gavidia, and sat near a group of two american girls and several Spanish guys. One was lively and laughing, well-dressed, and continually ordering beers and chowing down on tapas, while the other sat silent and sulking. She grabbed her friend’s shoulder and said, “That´s the one I have been telling you about. Esa es mi Cat. That´s my Cat.”
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