The European Fling
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The European fling begins and ends on the cusp of engine noise. You can faintly feel the ground vibrating beneath you and wonder if it's destiny convincing you that you’ve arrived at the border of heaven or if it is simply the roaring of flight 6957 at precisely 5:00 P.M. on a Thursday. Either way, Tinder Passport is downloading on your iPhone but at an awfully slow pace (the European Wi-Fi is nowhere near as promising as its men).
Somewhere in between London and Paris, white wine cascades like buttery oil down your hair. His fingers slip and slide in your blonde locks; it's casual here to touch on the first date. You're not sure why your cheekbones are sore from smiling, but something about the golden hour light and the strong scent of aftershave traveling across the table forces you to cancel your round-trip ticket. It is almost 8 P.M., and you're balancing on the edge of lust and suspense. A whirlwind of butterflies crawls up your arms, and you don't remember the frat boys back home making you feel this alive. You sip on sparkling water across from him as though it was the only taste of moisture you've ever had. It glides down your throat, sticking silently and grasping onto the skin. Another bottle and you will finally be nourished.
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It's his fifth date in a week. He waits every summer for the American bombshell to appear on his doorstep, begging for something more. In and out of love is the European trademark. In Italy, he trades sweet basil on the fresh dough for passionate kisses on a 20th-century gondola. He loves to blend the lines of historical remnants and freshly shaven legs like a poem in an English class. O Romeo, Romeo, please take me from my mundane American 9-5. Every girl is the adventure of a lifetime, or the adventure of a couple of hours if he is sticking to European time.
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Hidden among the white walls of Greece, you dance with a dark, tall, and handsome young man whose mother and sister secretly watch from the balcony. He’s in investment banking, and you're in a love triangle with the Mediterranean Sea and a boy whose name you cannot pronounce. The sun here feels like infatuation and desire. But more than that, you're afraid your European fling will become that awful and cliché ending to your favorite book. The one that got away but was never forgotten. How you don't miss online dating in Boston or pretentious dinner dates in Miami. How can you ever leave the man who touches you like a new silk dress? How will you exchange his soft accent in your ears at sunrise for brutal, touch-deprived winters?
He says he never wants to let you go and you forget that you are real. Somehow just a few days past June and a few pounds less than 100 something, you can't remember anything but his delicate eyes. Finally, a true reason to live.
Strike Out,
Writer: Sophia Yunaev
Editor: Noelle Knowlton
Tallahassee