Twenty One

“Do you like techno music?” her French accent always caught me off guard.

I hesitated, studying her face, her dark eyes, thin lips, looking for some sign of deceit.

“Uh, yeah,” I said, “I love it. Have done all my life.”

She smiled. “I have a ticket for a club in Barcelona when we get there. Do you want to go with me?”

I said I did, but I couldn’t shake the damage that I’d suffered recently. I couldn’t understand why this girl had taken an interest in me. This had to be a trap, some way of fucking with my head, luring me into danger again. I was so messed up this is how my mind worked now.

But the moment we met in Portugal something clicked between us, fell into place. We talked a lot, hung out a lot and soon we were eating and drinking together, sleeping together, taking (killer) walks, standing atop of a castle overlooking Barcelona with breathtaking views.

But I had to know what this was between us. I couldn’t risk getting attached if this was going to be another calamity. I told her my recent troubles.

After I spoke she was very quiet.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have told you,” I said.

“Maybe,” she said. She kissed me, looked at me. “I am not her. I will not break you.”

It helped me relax a little. I could enjoy my time with her more now, wherever we ended up. Maybe we would last, maybe this was just a tour thing. “Let’s see,” she would say.

So, five weeks after I was hiding behind trucks in Paris, trying and failing to hold myself together, I was now at the Input nightclub in Barcelona, with Mon petit mademoiselle, smiling as people told her how beautiful she was, laughing as they told me how beautiful I wasn’t.

Who knows where we will go.

Let’s see.