April 3, 2022 - Carcassonne
I am now in Carcassonne, France. Yesterday was in Lyon. L. and I were in that medieval bed and he asked me about the tattoo on my arm.

I found L. early morning outside Station Breda, leaning on a pole with one leg over the other. Backseat of his car there was the wooden CD box his father made for his favorite albums.
His hands on the steering wheel; his wrists, the soft hair glistening on his arms. On the rearview mirror I see his bright greens. We were overjoyed, laughing at the smallest thing. There was a growing energy between us. Something like hope or adventure. Our road trip. Je t’aime moi non plus and other songs in the car we both like.

On the medieval bed in Lyon I made a polaroid of him.
We were stopping at the doors of restaurants to check their menus and vibes. We were very picky; he was perhaps even pickier than me.
Isn’t the lighting here depressing?
The tables look sticky.
Wtf is this price for pasta!
This music could give me a psychosis.
Way too crowded.
Feels like a roadside motel.
Is this a retirement home cafeteria?

We ended up in a cute Italian restaurant. Once our large, steaming pizzas arrived, accompanied by cheap but tasty red wine, we were happy. We took an uber back tipsy and fell asleep very quickly.

Waking up to a sunny day in Carcassonne. The rude supermarket employees were too religious to sell us wine that holy day.  Even the condoms were locked in a cabin.
We found wine in a sketchy store. L. made prosciutto rolls with cheese for us while I was reading on the couch. Then he came to give me a hug.

On the way to Esterri we stopped by the riverside to make photos.
Bread with salmon in front of the fireplace he lit up. The astronomy book he was reading there. The lasagna he made. The holes he made on my red blanket with burning coal.

Street name tiles had depictions of flowers that bloom there.
L. threw a snowball at me.
Wine in bed. I saw his eyelashes up close on the couch.

In Barcelona he felt ill; we got him some medicine. Our laughter at the hilarious people by the beach blended with the sound of waves and ship horns.

I saw his ID on the bedside table by the bed; cute photo on it.
And what he confessed in Barcelona. How quickly I reciprocated, to not make him doubt it. The rush I said me too with didn't do justice to what I actually felt. The dream that came true. The air I breathe. The magic I’ve chased all my life.

I was already burdened with the pain of knowing that I was returning home that day.

He told me he cried in the car after we said goodbye.
He said “A dream really ended.”

That reminded me of a nightmare he had in the first weeks we met. He was trying to reach the rooftop of a building to meet me there. The place was crowded, and he felt like he was being followed. Although there were signs everywhere pointing to the rooftop, he couldn’t find his way to me. Then when he looked at his phone to ask me the address of the place again, he realised something horrible: that he had never actually met me at all. He had been talking to someone else, mistaking them for me.

But you did meet me L. We have many witnesses, pieces of evidence, bite marks on your back.
And we did have a wonderful time together.