June 7, 2017:

Gin and tonic.

He rolled out of bed, or off the floor if we're being literal, out the door into Knightsbridge with me in tow, having declined the G&Ts he offered for breakfast. We walked though Chelsea pub-hopping, drinking bitter, eating cheese & tomato. He knew the city, his mother lived there, it was her floor we slept on. I followed him gawking.

Of that trip I remember the Elgin Marbles as they were still called, six feet from Phidias' masterpiece at eye level. The Tube, the Rainbow, trying and failing to see The Jam, staying an extra day to see The Ramones, arriving late in Paris on my own searching for my friends and colleagues, calling out the name of our college from the sidewalk until someone heard.

Years later I stayed sadly on my own in Bloomsbury, missing the friend I now no longer acknowledge.

Thinking of one more try. A week for fun, maybe. On my own with camera. Or with the beautiful woman I adore ambiguously, if she'll go.

June 6, 2017:

Red lights and razor wire.

Car wash.
Car wash.
Car wash.
Car wash.

Where north is the new South.

June 5, 2017:

Motel room selfie.

Him: jet black hair, long ish, scraggly. Head back, unshaven, very very drunk.

Her: thick red hair, soft lips, sad eyes of pain and confusion. Very very drunk.

He loves her. Bones and blood and sinew.

She needs him. Unconditional emotional support as her mind and her world spin crashing inward.

But she resents him. He hurt her, and she's angry.

In a few weeks she'll be gone forever.

Tonight they're together, they're drunk, they're alone, just them and motel room sheets and polaroids.

It's a good night.