Time melted and slowed; little waves of pleasure lapped and pooled in her like warm rock pools. It felt so good, so right. Freja’s mouth soft and insistent as the sea’s waves, a sensation inside her like light on water.

She could hear her heartbeat in her ears,

so she made a family of her friends.

She smelled of citrus and flowers and bread.

The words were a part of her now as if she’d written them herself.

She hates authority but loves structure.

His lips were dry and cool. He kissed the thin skin above one eye, then the other. It was so tender, she shivered.

“My parents didn’t know shit,” said Lucky and lit another cigarette. “Still don’t.” Silence descended on the table. With the end of the story the dark tide of sadness that threatened each moment to pull her under returned.

Unlike in New York, in which heat was considered a right from May to September, every warm summer day in London felt special, fleeting. Women in the bright dresses they’d been waiting all year to wear flitted in and out of shops, barefoot men kicked soccer balls around huge green parks, old men in short sleeves relaxed outside of cafés, hookah pipe