Whenever I get this sick, I wax poetic, in the mind and onto the page. It also makes me a bit delirious and crazy, it makes me email men, expressing my love to them, which is true– I do love them, but I won’t love them like I do now–once my good health is back. Being sick makes me behave irrationally crying during every movie, including Hot Fuzz. So, I figured rather than blathering rambling insanity– I would re-post on of my absolute favorite moments in life.

The  sweet soft side of randomness. A he “moved me” moment.

It was late spring; life is like a wet oil painting at that time of year in Eastern Europe. My friends and I often frequented a beautiful wine garden under the Charles Bridge. They make their own scrumptious wine, very heady. The place had those half barrels with flames glowing, leaping out of them with flicks of radiant heat, warming the cool spring air, which added to my headiness.

On this particular night we were sitting in the grass, just past dusk, the sky was still streaked with shades of orange. There was a small intimate band playing. We were all just enjoying the music and the wine, laughing and–I don’t know it seemed like such a dream, I remember feeling content, yet elated at the same time. It was a careless and indifferent time and space.

As the night consumed the sky, more people joined us, the group grew and the wine flowed and the band never stopped. I had not even noticed when this man, I say man because he was probably about 45 to my young ripe age of 24, sat down next to me.

When I lifted out of my mesmerized state I turned my head and the man and I so naturally, just kissed. It was remarkably soft, kind, pure and effortless. His lips where a match to mine, we belonged together. We owned each other. It was one of those warm, wet, salacious lip to lip, necks curved, set fire to my mind, cunt and soul kind of kisses. Then it was over. We did not kiss again and no one saw us kiss the first time, it was perfect. He moved me.