I can’t remember the last time it was like this. At least five months ago, because that’s how many months we have lived split lives. But I’d say it has been even longer, perhaps before you went on your motorcycle trip down in Cali last summer.
It was that weekend when the summer sky was boiling hot and even more evil, whipping our house with its anger. The streetlights flickered and at the end of our road several rubbish bins fell and empty cans slammed the asphalt time after time. The rain flooded the windowpane and let the light dance in the projected streams across your skin. London lay quiet and we were probably short of money as usual or just in love because leaving the house was not an option.
I only wore pants once during those days. It was when we ran the 150m in the pouring rain to the tiny off license to buy tortellini, canned soup and ice cream. Back inside we were drenched down to our bone and didn’t hesitate to strip as no flatmates would be home for days. The wooden floor wasn’t even cold against my skin.
The rest of the time we spent in our bed discussing or streaming series whilst building mountains of empty wrappers and cans. Several times we had to turn up the volume when the thunder made our door shudder.
We must’ve watched something scary because I had to wake you up in the middle of the night so that you could check so that nobody had broken in. Afterwards we laughed at my being so scared of the dark and I fell back asleep on your chest. Downstairs our wet shoes didn’t dry for another four days. I don’t think that I for once those days remembered that there were other people in this world.
Now, perhaps seven months later we finally got to do nothing but stay in the house again. This time here in Stockholm. No friends to see, no city to explore, no money to spend. Just us. And I got to properly remember how that stormy weekend smelled, because it smelled like you.