Preciously rare sunrays of autumn are warming the cobblestones around our table. We picked a café table out on the patio because it's a long, long way to next summer and nostalgia is in the air. It's quiet and lovely.
Perhaps that's why we talk somberly and intimately about pressure, about expectations and limitations in a small town. Our deep-felt desire for freedom.
"Let's just go", I say impulsively, playfully. "To New York or London. We'll just go!"
To me, those are the most romantic words anyone could ever utter. If he said them, I would be helplessly his.
Well, I suppose not everyone can be a romantic. He is slipping from me, and I can't even bring myself to care that much. I'm too much of a romantic, even under this pragmatic and cynical exterior. I want love on the run, love in motion, Bonnie and Clyde (without all the dying), hand in hand towards the open horizon, sharing cold pizza and beer and love under starry skies before jumping on the next train somewhere else we've never been. Absolute freedom and endless love.
Not sure I could handle it. But I want it.
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