European Life

And I hang on to these imaginary balloons, sun shining through their imaginary red rubber. They lift me to the puffy clouds, white, clean, disappear-able.

I fucked up. There is no better expression for it.

I know why, and within a second he is kissing me, firmly and convinced, on our study break, a brisk sunset, late September, last warm day over. Fingers on my waist, smell of grass, and the smile that sticks to his face. I fucked up.

Does not matter now.

Mama-like

Luxemburg garden, then a little old cinema that welcomes only the same people for years now, a walk by Pantheon, and Latin quarter.

Hey, the best crepes in the city, are you hungry?

Waiting in the endless line of patient people and enjoying comfortable silence, I just note that I do not like when they handle money and food with the same hands. Silence again.

Funny, my mom would say the same thing.

And I suddenly feel too confident.