Worcester, England
9 July, 2016

9:29 pm

An evening walk turned into an evening sit-down by the river. The bench is cold but he is warm. It’s dark – well if you don’t count the lights of the bridge that are also reflected on the water. It’s drizzling and bizarrely, we can hear Sweet Home Alabama playing from somewhere on the other side of the river. I can feel the wind on my bare ankles and as absolutely cliché and silly that sounds, it makes me feel alive. The wind on my skin, the rain and the haunting music that has traveled on the water into our awareness all heighten my senses.

I’m already leaning my head against his shoulder but have the need to be closer. I wiggle into his arms, lay my head on his chest. I can hear his heartbeat, his pulse. He holds me tighter. There’s another couple on a bench near us, in an identical position and it makes me smile.


“The water doesn’t even look like water, does it?” he asks. I state that it looks like tar. I imagine throwing my phone in, then being swallowed by it myself. I remember my dream from a night before where I jumped into the river and I wasn’t even afraid. “I’ll go and swim this summer,” I think to myself.

One of the swans just won’t go to sleep, the others are already tucked in. “It’s like me!” he says. “It is,” I say.


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