The European Experience # 94

My hands are frozen above the key board. I can not write this story because it isn't a story at all. He was sitting at a cafe eating lunch. I walked by him and our eyes connected. I smile. He smile back. I sat down for a beer. We continue looking, and smiling back and forth. I order another beer. He gets up to leave. I get up to leave. We meet in the street. We go to buy cigarettes, return to the cafe for another drink, get up and go for a walk along the river, and we end up gratuitously making out on a riverside bench. That's the story. Nothing new.
He is new: He is something I have never experienced before. Dark, and masculine, with olive skin and soft penetrating eyes. He is a published writer (a book of short stories) and is an associate editor of an Art Lit magazine in Montreal. He speaks French. He has had articles published by the CBC, NOW, Maisonneuve, and The Toronto Star. He currently lives in Berlin: he received a grant from the government of Quebec to finish a novel. He loves Woody Allen movies (we both love "Bullets Over Broadway" the best). He has interviewed Margaret Atwood and tells me she is a cunt (She does look like a Cuntish woman, doesn't she?) He loves "The Hours" (as I do) and knows about the directing career of Stephen Daldry (an Artist who's career I would die for). He knows and loves Elaine Stritch: He saw her one woman show, and Bea Arthur's one woman show, in the same week while he was living in New York City getting a Masters in Creative Writing. He is applying to be a professor at a university here (A erotic professor fantasy is just as hot as a sexy T.A. fantasy) He has an incredible body: just enough defined and tone muscle, just enough dark hair on his manly chest, a round small ass, and soft kissable lips. He knows how to kiss my neck and run his fingers across my back. He is an incredible kisser. He makes me want to do dirty things. He is going to call later tonight and we are going to go out dancing.
I can not stop smiling. I can barely catch my breath. I feel like I am going to vomit. The thought that my experience here, including my experience with this man, is transient and far too temporary makes me want to cry. I exist both between and simultaneously in the world of amorous Eurphoria and love-lorn despair.
My fingers froze over the key board with good reason. I have written nothing. None of this adequately captures this man, nor the way he makes me feel. I fell fast and hard. To say I am living the Romantic Cliche European Love affair is true but insufficient in expressing this experience. You know mere facts, and not even all of the facts that I could tell you. I could go on and on about the weather near the river, or the dirt that covered the white toes of his black Converse runners, or recite our conversation regarding Shakespeare and the theatre, but there is little point.
This is something... Something... This is. And, damn, does it feel good.