Please take your time and be late, I’m still showering... I kinda started fantasising you’d arrive with your gentleman (bloody) British punctuality and I’d be all desperate and literally all wet getting a towel and three blankets so as to go running downstairs, looking like a furry inca/azteca/maya/tayrona momia only to press the building entrance door button for you to come in and then turn back on a rush, leaving the flat door open behind for you to suit yourself while I try to dress whatever special dress I will never find in my wardrobe, with freaky fast heartbeats just like every time I see you, not concentrating at all, when you would suddenly rise in front of me totally outta nowhere and scare the hell out of me hugging me from behind and I don’t know what comes next cause I ridiculously pathetically romantically pass out in your arms because that’s the only thing I could come up with in order to stop fucking writing right now and try to get back to reality, to finally dress me up, to not freeze, nor dye, nor catch a cold before you actually arrive (to be continued...).
