I love him in those glasses.
I love him.
He's my first love and I live in one of the most romantic cities in the world.
My entire life feels like Van Gogh's Starry Night. Whimsical and magical.
Im in a mini skirt and fishnet stockings with layers and layers of silver bangles on my arms..both arms chime like a thousand bells every time I move. I raise the clear plastic cup of champagne to my bright red lips and the bubbles kiss my nose. The City sounds whir all around while my moonlight river colored eyes take in the sights through the rim of the crystal clear cup. It's cold up here. Which is one of the reasons we like it. I hug my knee high booted thighs a little closer to my body and snuggle closer to him for warmth. Each time we come, we bring our plaid, wool blankets up to our ledge and lay them amongst pieces of old gum and trash over icy, graffiti covered concrete. We will later take these same blankets back to our room to make love on and never think twice about their cleanliness or get grossed out. Im 20 years old and I don't give a fuck about where my blankets have been. And the world belongs to me.
And this night.
And this night that goes on for eons in the pockets of my mind. This is our ritual in this city, in this spot. Our spot. And hundreds of nights sipping champagne and smoking the occasional Pall Mall Cigarette have somehow become a single moment in space and time.
And this moment.
And the next.
Forever stretching time moment by moment until I am an old woman in his arms and we have lived lifetimes together. Our children are all grown and gone and our bodies show beautiful signs of wear and rejoicing. We have lived a good life and these geeky glasses of his have become more endearing with each passing year. On Sundays we walk to the cafe on the corner for fresh baked croissants and strong coffee. He stops to buy me a bouquet of yellow daisies -- always yellow daises -- and even though its been our ritual every week for the past 50 years, I always act surprised when he presents them to me from behind his back. We sit at our favorite window table dipping buttery crusts of croissant into strong cups of coffee and watch the people of the world pass us by in another lifetime.
But today it's just me and him on the bridge, sipping champagne with the occasional cigarette and the world belongs to us.