Jun 5
People came and went all night, welcomed by the warm evening, the 12-piece jazz band, rich restaurant aromas and the boundless night sky. I hear their enthusiasm as they’re escorted to their tables. These Geneva people seem more Germanic and reserved than the French, although they’ve stolen our language. Maybe they license French or subscribe to it, like Spotify.
Peter (my bf) and I danced, unburdened by tomorrows, on a terrace of frozen-ice like, pale-blue tiles. The spilled star-field glittered like fireworks on a dark canvas of a new-moon, black sky.
The distant, snow-covered Alps seemed to reach for the glistening cosmos, like spilled water rushing across a floor or children grasping at toys. Compared to this celestial gallery, the Geneva skyline looked as sad as an old stage prop.
The air was scented with blooming jasmine, baking bread and coffees. A breeze, in turns warm and cool, wrapped around us, sharing the dance by pressing my dress to me one moment and throwing it away the next.
The dress I picked it up in Paris earlier in the week - a svelte, Chiuri Dior, ‘New Look Silhouette’ in Prussian blue Chiffon and cobalt crepe - felt as lightweight, breathable and cool as workout-mesh.
Peter’s a good dancer. He’s firm yet gentle, guiding me effortlessly, in a lazy, jazz way, from the waist. When we’re in the flow, our choreography’s guided more by the unseen music than a set dance.
Our evening - I think it’s fair to say we owned it - turned into an unhurried night, before easing, unnoticed, into morning - as summer evenings tend to do.
Our words, in hushed tones, were washed away on the breeze and the music, lost to anyone but ourselves. Time never seemed more of an abstract and irrelevant construct - and if there was a world beyond those moments - it went unnoticed.
.
.
Songs for this:
Good Luck, Babe! by Chappell Roan
Lose My Breath (Feat. Charlie Puth) by Stay Kids, Charlie Puth
Stumblin’ In by CRYIL
**** to someone by Clairo
Peter (my bf) and I danced, unburdened by tomorrows, on a terrace of frozen-ice like, pale-blue tiles. The spilled star-field glittered like fireworks on a dark canvas of a new-moon, black sky.
The distant, snow-covered Alps seemed to reach for the glistening cosmos, like spilled water rushing across a floor or children grasping at toys. Compared to this celestial gallery, the Geneva skyline looked as sad as an old stage prop.
The air was scented with blooming jasmine, baking bread and coffees. A breeze, in turns warm and cool, wrapped around us, sharing the dance by pressing my dress to me one moment and throwing it away the next.
The dress I picked it up in Paris earlier in the week - a svelte, Chiuri Dior, ‘New Look Silhouette’ in Prussian blue Chiffon and cobalt crepe - felt as lightweight, breathable and cool as workout-mesh.
Peter’s a good dancer. He’s firm yet gentle, guiding me effortlessly, in a lazy, jazz way, from the waist. When we’re in the flow, our choreography’s guided more by the unseen music than a set dance.
Our evening - I think it’s fair to say we owned it - turned into an unhurried night, before easing, unnoticed, into morning - as summer evenings tend to do.
Our words, in hushed tones, were washed away on the breeze and the music, lost to anyone but ourselves. Time never seemed more of an abstract and irrelevant construct - and if there was a world beyond those moments - it went unnoticed.
.
.
Songs for this:
Good Luck, Babe! by Chappell Roan
Lose My Breath (Feat. Charlie Puth) by Stay Kids, Charlie Puth
Stumblin’ In by CRYIL
**** to someone by Clairo
Our cast…
Peter (My bf), is a bearded, 27-year-old from the sage hills of Malibu, California. He’s 6’1, too thin, and his hair is an explosion of uncombed black. Until last week, when I tanned him up, his skin was pale from over exposure to fluorescent lighting. He earned his PhD in Applied Physics last year and now he works for CERN here in Geneva. He’s smart, quiet, awkward and he can be too serious. I’m unreasonably cRaZy about this guy.
Svelte: From the Merriam Webster ‘Word of the day’ list: something sleek, like a greyhound or racecar
Peter (My bf), is a bearded, 27-year-old from the sage hills of Malibu, California. He’s 6’1, too thin, and his hair is an explosion of uncombed black. Until last week, when I tanned him up, his skin was pale from over exposure to fluorescent lighting. He earned his PhD in Applied Physics last year and now he works for CERN here in Geneva. He’s smart, quiet, awkward and he can be too serious. I’m unreasonably cRaZy about this guy.
Svelte: From the Merriam Webster ‘Word of the day’ list: something sleek, like a greyhound or racecar
(21/F/U.S.)
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