This one I call LUST 🌇🍷🎷😘

Transcript

My pulse clicks up another gear. Right now is when the evening really begins. The facts are these.

Dinner is done. It's only nine o'clock. I'm walking in Oxford, England, with a delectable blonde.

And I am smiling like crazy. I've slain the idea that she was way out of my league. The nagging doubt.

The urge to slink off into the darkness and leave her to the alphas. It's going too well for that. We're on our second date.

Yes, I do believe it's a date. We never said it in so many words, but my texts to her have been unequivocal. She knows why I'm here.

And she has come to me looking better than ever. Makeup. Dark eye shadow.

Perfume that works. This feels a lot like a date. That's why I'm smiling.

And every breath of evening. Cool is so sweet. It's an autumn night.

Not freezing like a true English winter's eve. But we can feel an edge in the air. She wants to walk.

My little creature of the moonlight. Well then. So do I.

Okay. I wanted her to drink more, too. Because that never hurts, right? But it looks like she's decided to go easy on the alcohol tonight.

Smart girl. She won't be easy. But I don't need her to be.

She is worth any wait. So I went with it. And we plunged out of the pub.

Into the ancient streets. Walking is what we do. She and I.

We walked moments after we first met three weeks ago after I got talking to her at a photography exhibition. I'd use the dumbest of dumb lines. Words about her being from Finland.

Because, you know. The photographer was Finnish and, you know. She was the purest Scando blonde.

God-awful words. She wasn't even Scandinavian. Polish.

Warlord of Black, I noticed. But she smiled as she corrected my blundering chat up. And then we talked like old friends.

It wasn't one-way traffic. She wanted to know about my life, too. And then, spontaneously, just like that, we walked.

Miles. Until night fell. She let me have her number.

When we met up the next weekend. We walked again. More miles.

More hours. We walked on Port Meadow. The marshy common land beyond the town.

Port Meadow. With its cows and its ducks. And its horses.

She taught me all the Polish words for the animals. And there it was. My nickname for her.

Kaczuszka. Little duck. Kaczuszka.

So perfectly right for this slight little creature. With her jet-black plumage. Just eighteen.

She would barely make a ripple in water. Just like. ..

Kaczuszka. And she giggled every time I said it. Failing so bad at the Polish, which made me want to say it all the time.

So on Port Meadow, we walked and walked. And then we sat on a tiny piece of log. Inexplicably present in the middle of the vast, open lands.

It was made for two beginner lovers. That little chunk of dead wood. Only by sitting shoulder to shoulder could two of you squeeze onto it.

We sat for an eternity. Our sleeves touching with ease. She smoked her slim, long cigarettes.

Like a seasoned heroine in a black and white French film. Black clothes. White hair.

She was made for monochrome. Then a brown cow. Eyes dark and benevolent.

Came over to greet us. Apprehensive, we scratched her nose. And my Kaczuszka squealed with glee.

The worldly, hard-smoking adult was a child again. Darkness came. And so too the chill.

We laughed as she felt my hand. How cold it was. I lifted her over a stile.

How light she was. We came to spooky, inky words. And I thought to take her hand.

But I didn't want to scare her. So I didn't take her hand. We paused on the bridge by the houseboats.

And looked at the stars. Then the fog came down. And we were alone in it.

Perfectly alone. And I grew more and more bewitched by this calm, intelligent and precious creature with the pale blue gemstone eyes. She who could walk around a field for all those hours.

Just talking. Just enjoying our time. I was learning scraps of her language and she was perfecting mine.

Sometimes for fun. We lapsed into the French both of us had studied. Sometimes her thoughts were dark.

But making her smile was all I wanted. Seeing her smile made my heart dance. So now we're walking again.

In the middle of town this time. We have no plan. Only the serpentine streets and lanes of the old university town.

Spontaneous is good. But I need to kiss her tonight. I need to take this connection of ours to the next level.

I can go with the flow. But if my moment comes. That perfect cocktail of place and time.

I must seize it. Before someone else does. Or before our moment passes.

The mere thought turns a flood of dread into my veins. The thought passes. I just know that moment will come tonight.

I've felt like we've been in a movie since the moment our paths crossed that random Friday afternoon. The script says our time is tonight. I have a feeling in my gut that this night will change my life.

It's not a feeling I want to shake. Something else crosses my mind as we meander onto the red brick square of Gloucester Green. She mentioned a guy the last time.

Just once. Oh, only in the vaguest, most casual terms. He's in Portugal and it's nothing official.

It might be something or nothing. She was just waiting, seeing. Long distance was difficult, she said.

And she shrugged her black fur-coated shoulders a lot. I have no qualms about disrupting this thing. If she is so clearly undecided as to his merits.

Mr. Nice Guy has retired. After all, I've recently concluded that there is no such thing as a truly single woman.

There's always some guy, somewhere. Even if he's long gone and remains only in her head. He'll always have to push someone aside to get into a girl's heart.

That's just how it is. But it does make my assignment more difficult. I have fallen so hard for her that I will push through any barriers.

I have a suspicion that she'll put up for me. Just depends how many. Right now, she looks carefree and cool as she sucks on a roll-up.

She switched to them last week because they take more effort. I'm lazy so it means I'll smoke less. But I'm sure her mind must be racing too.

And I doubt her thoughts are as simple as mine. My fawning smile plugs back as I look at her once more. Smoking.

So attractive. Period. Only with her, I don't care.

I'd almost be disappointed if she stopped. It's part of her aura. When we ate pizza, she talked about how she liked the smell of smoke on her fingers before she goes to sleep.

Now I want to smell her sweet little fingers. She sees my inane grin. She blesses me with a little smile too.

Before she glances awkwardly at the ground. Nerves. Doubts.

Who could say? But for the thirteenth time my mind takes a snapshot of this perfect face. Lips as red as cherries come straight from the tree.

So full. So kissable. Corners turned up in the happiness just the way I like them.

Her skin is pale as it blossoms from that self-same cherry tree. She was born with a melanin deficiency and you know what? It works.

I'm walking with the modern day Snow White. Three days later. So where was I? Let me rewind for a moment.

Take myself to that magic night. Pregnant with possibility. Ah yes.

We're strolling. Our destination? Nowhere in particular.

She's broken out some white clothing for me tonight rather than going for the head-to-toe black she so enjoys. She looked like a polished raven. Last time I saw her.

Though she confided that she did own colourful red pyjamas. I didn't hear what she said after that. I was in bed with her.

Holding her warm, vulnerable little body tight and close. My precious treasure in red pyjamas. Safe with me.

Always. This evening though. Only the inky fur coat and dark trousers remain from my French little speaker's collection noir.

Her shoes are bright white for our date. She's dug out a white t-shirt too with black polka dots. Naturally.

I had tried wearing black to match what I thought she'd wear. I thought it might be romantic. But the outfit didn't work and I'd scrapped it in favour of jeans and a colourful shirt.

Mostly autumnal reds. At dinner we laughed about how we'd picked out our clothing. And all I could think was you could wear sackcloth sweetie and your eyes would be nectar enough for me.

I'm thinking it now again. There is nowhere I'd rather be. You're going to have to excuse me for a minute sir but I'm going to talk to your missus.

Says a voice in the dark. We both jump. He's materialised from nowhere.

Can I ask for a roll up? If you won't mind governor. There's a twinkle in his eye and a likeable moan in his voice but his face is grimy.

He bears the scars of the streets. Also there's a mostly empty bottle of white wine in his hand. We're being accosted by one of Oxford's many hobos.

Our stroll has taken an unexpected twist. My instinct is to protect her and I edge closer. But this guy is harmless and there are plenty of people around.

She's cool with it, grown up beyond her years. Even though he disarms her of her own smouldering roll up and finishes it himself. Outrageous but done in a way that you had to laugh.

You two are going to have beautiful children. He babbles. Where are you from love? Denmark? Sweden? She's from Finland.

I chime in knowing she'll get the reference. She plays along and of the fact that we're by no means a couple she says nothing. I like that but she does correct him on the kids question.

She definitely doesn't want any. I knew that already. Just another thing we agree on.

Never say never our new friend says. While she tries to roll him another smoke with her shaky fingers. She's still clumsy at the roll up game.

Children are the greatest blessing you can have.