The streets are not as I remember them; more Chester than Eastern Europe. But there are still a thousand things that fascinate me. This will make a great journal entry.
I can't help but sneak a look at you. Your tartan skirt isn't for holidays, but parties and, sometimes, those long nights we stayed up drinking, everyone falling around us like sycamore leaves in September. And your thighs aren't for me, even the little I see.
Come on, you say, and we take a left. I run so fast to keep up with you I'm practically falling down the alleyways. I'm halfway through a complaint when your hand reaches out and your lips trace mine.
No, I say, meaning the opposite. He's only back at the hotel. He, or one of the Squad, could have followed us. And anyway, it isn't fair. We're the ones who got him drunk, and I'm responsible. One of his lackeys is dead because of me.
You laugh. Triangles never die, you tell me. You have to reach up to kiss me but it's worth it. The warmth, the comfort… it's more like a hug than a pull. A fluffed pillow, family, Horlicks, friendship. A summer's evening on a wintry Bohemian afternoon.
I fall to my knees. I've betrayed a friend to gain a lover. This time it's you laughing when I wake up.