Sunday March 31, 2019
Hair slicked back in waves the men lunge forward as we walk back, heels clicking the cobblestone streets, tempting and sweating and breathing and hoping, and are we lost now? It doesn’t really matter. Names we don’t know and names we do and beer by the pitcher even though we don’t really like it. Tapas served with everything, maybe that’s why we order more beer. I’m dizzy and you’re kissing a very tall Jorge in the corner and now I’m not sure about getting back to the hostel or getting back home or my boyfriend a million miles away or if we’re going to make it, you and me, me and him, this and us.