In London, a boy with a heavy rucksack collapsed into my naked lap, and smiled with the gusto only children (and drunken men) can still muster. I lit a cigarette and placed it between his clumsy fingers. Gorgeous, he whispered.
Gorgeous, I nodded, and said my farewells to Albion that night.
In Paris, we were still young. We walked waiting for morning with the birds, then welcoming night in the arms of French drunkards – two girls folded in the creases of a memory obscured by wine.
Europe was hungover and forgot about us when the season turned, but we kept her in our heart all the same.