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  • Writer's pictureThe poetry of details

The one who will get away.​

In matters of the heart, I can't predict if a new passion will play a significant part in my life. I'm terrible at noticing when people notice me. And I met him and that theory was once again confirmed. He saw me before I saw him. But he was there, with his perfect British accent. He was next to me, with impeccable German phrasing. It was him, one of the few who loves languages more than I do. Ten minutes into our conversation and I wanted to talk to him forever. He understood my jokes and took every uncomfortable question with an expert's experience.

He's good with words, and he's good at flirting - he's playing in a different league. And the second I realized this was more than a polite exchange of words, I took up the challenge. It was the first night in a long time when someone was prepared for a battle of wits. And there's nothing that I love more. If someone had written down our conversation and compare it with a game, it would have been a tennis match. We were taking turns into making each other work a bit to earn the next point. He was confident in his strokes, I was decisive in my serves, he took what I was giving him, calculating a risk into the flirting game now and then, but without slowing his momentum.

He took medium risks, the risk level that you play at normally when you meet someone for the first time. That is to say, I was not merely trying to get the ball over the net, I was playing my answers for him to respond without rushing. When he went out for a smoke, he was already a professional. He hit a short ball, then he came towards the net, while I was trying to hit the low bounce deep to a corner. I could see him staring, and I pretended I didn't notice. I laughed at someone else's joke, but I remained at the net, waiting for him to throw a weak shot in return.

His invitation to get a drink in a different location was hard to decline. It was a magical night, and I was already half in love with him. Two hours flew by, and I knew I had to go home.

Tremendously sorry, I had to leave - because otherwise, I would have loved him unconditionally. And God knows for how long.

Because I don't care about the dissimilarity between the two cultures - that would be the beautiful part in a relationship. This time, the impediment was the age difference, and I know that in the long term, it wouldn't work. And that made me furious - he was there, in front of me, speaking softly and charming. Looking at me like I'm the most amazing woman on earth and I looked back at him with a bashfulness that quickly was transformed into pride - because he chose me, from all the women around him that night. I was myself, I was honest and vulnerable, and I liked it. I liked it a lot. And that bugged me because I knew that whatever it will happen between us, it won't be more than an experiment. I am still angry about it - life's not fair. I met him and he turned my life upside down and I will compare him with everyone I will meet in the future.

I hope - somehow - you will understand that, in another life, I would stay. I wouldn't hurry home. I would kiss you good-night and ask you to grab your passport and come see the world with me. You would be you, and I would be me. I would take your hand and just be.

I wish you will read this because I want to talk to you again. And again. And again.

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