I wish we could go back to that time we spent in Sweden. Sleeping in all morning in your cousin’s room she let us use, dark and stuffy, lying on that mat on the floor, the passion soaked sheet woven between our bodies. Roaming the city streets all night, warm air pushing us along, liquor on our breath, the backs of my heels bleeding because I had been wearing those brand new shoes everywhere. When we squished into that tiny bathroom in the downstairs of the bar that faced the ferries, I wanted you to take me then, right there, to feel your excitement grow against me, but feared your judgement too much to ask.
That little Irish pub we found and favored. With the only sane prices that late into the night and fries I’m sure we’ll never find as good anywhere else. The night they had live music, of course bagpipes included, the energy pulsating throughout the pub, the sweet whiskey dancing on my tongue. It was invigorating, and you were all I wanted to look at.
