I’ve been thinking about time. And places left behind. People.
I looked up plane tickets to San Francisco today, what if I went there in the summer. Back to the farm in Sonoma, to pick blueberries and spend my afternoons reading Russian classics by the pond.
There was a young man, beautiful, he tried to teach me how to dance charleston. Moving within his gaze. Just that, a place that is enough. The air tangible. So rare with eyes I actually can feel on my skin, tingling.
Maybe not while stepping on my own toes in a poor excuse for a charleston, though.
Still, strange. I haven’t thought about that gaze for ages. Not even while there, at the farm, where he came to visit sometimes. He was young and I have already told you, I have a terrible taste in men. The good ones, the ones that could teach me to dance charleston, they pass me by.
Next time, if there ever is one, I’ll make him teach me some lindyhop.
Katja Malmborg 