An imaginary evening (or Chapter 3’s ending)

I’ve been back for a week, already, but not quite completely. What I thought was going to be holidays became a intense race against time : let’s make as many things as possible happen before I leave. A sleepless weekend programming the Sausage Productions identities before the Manuela launch. The most intense two weeks I’ve had in a while for the organization of Peace and Noise and the amok aftermath (did you get a Post-Postrutsche-Postpartum too?). Meetings and dinners and evenings and concerts, all so lovely and beautiful. Another couple of nights past closing time at this certain bar…

But it all went too fast and one month was not enough. I am, once again, left on my thirst and yearning for more. Dreaming of Munich Nights that have yet to happen, mashups of memories and fantasies under reddish lights or a warm night breeze.

I kiss your cheek as we hug just to get a small whiff of your smell, this perfume of spices and fresh tobacco that you wear so well.

From the two opposite ends of the long counter, we greet each other, like we do every night in this second home of ours.

We hold hands and get emotional and are grateful for everything that have brought us together, again.

We gossip and dig too deep into puns and I know you feed on the stars in my eyes.

I lean into you as we sit outside, and you hug me back without a word.

Your exclamation point of a voice resonates through the bar.

Your beauty mark dances on your face when you laugh.

You say “Oh, Emilie” like it’s a melody.

And you. And you. And you too.