Letters to Sweden

installment one.

Dear Sweden,

The weekend was wonderful.  I was caught out on the cobblestone streets in a sudden and terrific downpour.  The sky split in half and out fell millions of silver drops, some of them iced over and nearly blue with cold.  Others were warmed by the leftover sun and they’d slam onto your skin and then be gone just as quickly, sucked back up into the clouds.  My legs were bare and the puddles were deep.  My skirt changed color around the knee where the rain darkened it, soaked it through, and then dried in slow patches. 

I was with a man who smiles with his eyes.  I ran ahead of him, laughing to myself.  My mascara ran in little black streams.  My lips stuck together and formed themselves into a grin around my cigarette.  Little skin membranes stayed there on the filter, specks of pale pink lipstick too.  The cigarette bent in the rain and I didn’t bother lighting it.  I just watched it kind of bounce there while I laughed.

There was coffee after that, Sweden.  There was coffee and skin and music and a window to watch the storm taper off through.  And we did.  The collected puddles rippled less and less frequently.  The sun strained itself over the city.  There were books in towers you could climb to the ceiling and more of that warm skin, too.  More smiling with the eyes.  More music and less silver.

I read a book about monsters.  I read an article about the economy.  I was kissed and my fingers were thawed for the first time in years. 

I hope your weekend was as wonderful as mine, Sweden.  I hope you have stories you could write into books and screenplays.  Tell me your stories and I’ll be more honest with mine.

Until the next time I feel the urge,

Tiredfoxes xox