#Day 582: Nine Hours And Five Beers


I remember that night in moments of poorly disguised longing and surprised discomfort. I had a little too much to drink and you danced with me on the highway. I rememberly nearly dying at least four times in nine hours, but I’d never felt more alive.

What was it about being in a strange country, broke and broken, that kept us roaring through the dark? This is not me. I don’t crash parties. I don’t chug five cans of beer. I don’t play strip poker. I don’t lie on park benches, plucking grass. I don’t drive down strange roads with almost strange friends. I don’t play the guitar for newly weds on a church porch.

You’re a felon, I know you are. You stole a night of peaceful slumber from me, and I will be forever grateful for that. Because who I was in that one night was happier than I’ve been in a whole two years.

You sneaked a Vespa from your best friend, we drove down to Nevada. I faintly recall chilled champagne and your fingers trailing down my neck. We ate at diners and drank at pubs, you smoothed down my hair and tickled the living day lights out of me. I can feel your arm tugging me up to the terrace, and kissing me under screaming fireworks. This is something I haven’t known for a while, happiness.

I’m wasted on the edge of glory, and the only thing keeping me from tipping over is the slow arrival of dawn. The idea of a new day does not interest me anymore, I only want another night with you. I revel in the memories, because in those nine hours next to the warmth of your hands and the unguarded chill of your green eyes, I knew you had changed my life forever.


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