Leaving the restaurant near-drunk (or drunk, the limits on this kind of thing are kinda subjective) I fall behind a young couple heading for the exit. The man is blond and bulky but in a muscular kind of way. From the pastel colours of his t shirt and shorts I place him firmly in Northern Europe – they seem to love that shit up there. His girlfriend – too young to be married in my view – is in black dress ending somewhere above her knees, wearing matching high heels. There’s a moment when she stops and lifts her left foot up, probably some kind of problem with the heels – bound to be when they are that high. For a moment I think i see a tattoo on her foot which draws my eyes down there and I’m in no hurry to lift them up again. Fortunately her boyfriend doesn’t notice. I used the word “think” because moments later I can’t seem to find it; maybe I’ve imagined it in my half-drunken-to-drunken haze, an artifact of seeing tattoos in just about every woman out there. Maybe it was in a spot which was not visible from behind. In any case, my attention quickly fell on her face which was beautiful and somewhat spanish-looking, like a more beautiful version of Penelope Cruz. The two exchanged some sentences – probably related to the heel problem – yet I couldn’t make out what they were saying; hell, I couldn’t even make out what language they were using which I found particularly upsetting as I’m usually quite good at that kind of thing. They could be talking Valerian for all I knew.

In the car park our paths parted, theirs definitely going to a much better place than mine.

Just before getting into the car I imagined myself surrounded by countless towers reaching up to space, as if I wanted Gods to witness the moment.

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