CORTIJO At El Cortijo, with coffee tilting right and left in talk weird as alcohol, a little dark one backed into my knee, didn't look round. . . just sat on it. No introduction! She took my femur for a public perch, and in that exhilarant fluctuation of conversation quivered like a kitten ready to bounce. I wrung myself with love for the finely wound nerve of her, balanced there, and the way loose hairs half-twisted at her palpitating nape. Disturbed by my rude eye she twitched round to glare my grin into a grimace, then looked back but didn't budge her delicate handful of bum.