I was weary when I arrived. Hours of buses and smog and trains and noise. I fell into her embrace like a warm bath. There is perhaps no greater feeling in the world than walking through a foreign city to see a woman you know will love you back.
Walking down the street with thoughts of it becoming real, feeling alive, proud, nervous, calm, anticipating, strong, each time no less thrilling than the first. The instincts take over. The pulse quickens. The imagination becomes fixed on the prey and, no matter how far or how hungry or how tired or how broke, it’s always worth it in the end, when you sink your teeth in and she falls down to die in your arms. There is no greater thrill than the hunt. When drawing in closer, walking down her street, feeling her touch before she is there. And yet often those quiet moments alone turn out to the the best of the night. Sat waiting on a park bench, giving yourself over to the bird song; or having a cold beer in a bar, quietly forgetting the time. Arriving into a foreign town at midnight, I always remember Kerouac and Henry Miller, the ghosts of all those great (cerebral) adventurers of the past. Fearful and hungry, completely happy, wide-eyed and wary of everyone, feeling suddenly alive, watching the street signs and the weather and the time, with keen senses and quickened step. In those dark streets, passing shadows in the doorways, unfamiliar gazes in the rain, you feel like a ghost.
0 Comments
|
AuthorEnglish teacher from the UK. Living in Granada. Currently working in Doha. Archives
February 2022
Categories
All
|