The Sound

The voices from a 10-year-old blockbuster on it's 7th repeat blaring from a commercial tv station. The shaw... shaw.... shaw... of cars rolling quickly along the main road at the end of the street. The click click of the mouse as Kuba reads the Polish online tabloids.

The Taste

Pizza-garlic soaked into my upper lip and the dirty after-taste of the world's favourite habit. A sip of beer has been unremarkable.

The View

Kuba's cheek alternated with his eyes, the ceiling, or Zorro through my knees as we lay together on the loungeroom floor.

The Touch

Kuba's shoulder in my left hand with my right arm awkwardly positioned under my body. His soft and Brut-ed cheeks. Softer than mine, which are dryer.

The Mood

On the balcony I sit alone while Kuba is inside. We're not talking, but we're in each other's company. I begin to realise what his leaving will mean. I had forgotten how anxious I used to feel when alone for more than an hour, and it has occurred to me that this may come back. I go back inside and press my lips against his cheek and tell him I'm sucking as much juice out of him as possible in preparation for his departure.  ¶ 22:00