At the top of Arthur’s Seat we tried to find my flat and eventually just gave it up for lost. I pointed out landmarks—some real and some made up—and we could see where far off, in some distant country, it was raining.
I wore boots with no treads and slipped my way down the mountain, providing plenty of entertainment for someone so much steadier on their feet.
“Can we always go hiking together? You’re very fun,” he says at the bottom. I pretend to scowl, which I’m good at.
Later we find ourselves in a pub around the corner from my street. We had talked, weeks earlier, about moments. About those moments that stay with you forever even though at the time, they seem rather ordinary. And then those moments that unfold before you and you know, without a doubt: this is fucking important.
This is fucking important, I kept thinking to myself. We leaned back against an old piano. I drank cheap whiskey on ice, glass after glass until I lost count.
And the number of times that repeated in my head—I also lost count of that.