Watching as you open the door to your room, a sweet scent of incense and candles and musk makes me exclaim aloud. Unable to say very much while we burn one with the other two, all I can do is look at scattered clues and stretch, an unfortunate habit for a girl in a room full of men;
Walking my bike across the canal and through tiny side streets, caught by a Russian telling me my bike is special. Smiling and glancing upward catches in sight your hands in your pockets, fleece shoulders slouching, a hat on your head, skinny and vintage buildings behind you;
Using the closet toilet where the seat was always up despite the feminist leanings of the anarchist scribbling on the wall, pushing the door that didn’t close and looking for a place to sit next to you only to find sad puppy dog eyes;
Barely watching a movie I hate in a dingy squatter bar full of goofy gabbing whispers, preoccupied and wondering if you are there behind me looking.