This story takes place somewhere between the truth and my terrible memory. Perhaps it crosses a couple of hills of imagination, but you can assure yourself that the entirety of this story is how I’ve experienced it.

I have started this story time and again. Where did it start?

In the summer of the summer in your summer, it is pouring.

Drops clack, bounce back, push themselves into puddles,
as if, they too, are surprised by the force of their arrival.

You wear plain rained gray and dripping denim. High waist, shoes laced, squirting and squeaking with every step. Humid heat and sweaty stench.

You breathe in through your nose and choke. You’re soaked, it doesn’t matter. Surrender and wave with the weather.

Signs on both sides of the street boast about booze and boat trips. Printed photos show the trained cormorants in the karst mountains, diving for crucian carp, or maybe catfish.

You’d wanted to escape the hostel, where travellers exchanged unsolicited advice on crossing borders, being broke.

Alone is so free. No one to take into account, no one to please. Breakfast on your own is a milestone. At home, you are often catered for, or maybe catered to.

Who cares.

He is standing to the side of the road, seeking shelter under a plastic sheet he holds up with both arms. You are shy, not the type to walk up to anyone, but now you’ve turned your body and you’re striding in a straight line and not sure what to say.

You’re hesitant. No magical attraction, like in stories on first sight. Still, you stride, not because of wanting or will or any of those myths, but because you see no other option.

Your mother is having a nap on the couch again. She usually does this around four o’clock, between two pints and cooking dinner.

‘She’s probably napping’, you tell her.

‘Napping?’, she asks. She frowns.

‘Yeah, she works night shifts’, you lie. The idea of your mother having the discipline to commit to a regular schedule is hilarious, but your friend wouldn’t know.

‘Oh’, she nods understandingly. ‘Right, I was like, who sleeps during the day?’

You laugh loudly, and open the door towards the living room. Indeed, there she is on the sofa. A burning cigarette is still in her hand, and you need to remove it without your friend noticing.

‘Hey mum’, you say cheerfully. As you stand in front of her, you quickly grab the fag out of her hand. The hot ash burns against the palm of your hand, and in a fluent motion, you drop it in the ashtray on the coffee table.

‘What’s for dinner?’

‘Hmm?’, you mother moans.

‘What’s for dinner’, you ask again.

‘Owl’, your mother says. Her eyes are still shut. You hold your breath, turn around, and walk to the kitchen.

‘Owl?’, your friend asks, and giggles while you open the tap to pour water into cups with syrup for both of you. She stares at your mother in disbelief.

‘Yes’, you say casually. ‘Have you never had it? It’s like chicken, but nicer. And more expensive, by the way. You have to buy it at special farms, you can’t buy it at the supermarket.’

Your friend looks confused, you can tell she’s thinking. You know her family lives in social housing, so this was your safest bet. You give her the lemonade and the two of you go upstairs to play Rollercoaster Tycoon on your dad’s desktop computer.

‘Why did you say we were going to eat owl’, you ask later that day, when your mum is putting the ready-made beef teriyaki in the microwave, a meal she loved.

‘Oh, I don’t know’, she says. ‘To make you go away.’

I don’t know why, but I often fantasized about him sitting in the passenger seat while I was driving. Maybe it was because I was most lonely on the road, in a limbo between distractions. But it was more than that – I felt so mature whenever I was driving, and I wanted him to see that. I wanted him to see how casual I was, shifting gears so matter-of-factly, steering the wheel with one hand.

I just wanted to drive somewhere with him, it didn’t even matter where to. I wanted him to pick the songs and for us to talk about them.

It dawned on me that whenever I wrote, I had the same feeling inside of my body as when I thought of him.

A warm and fuzzy feeling in the chest, like a bee flying against the window. Something excited, something that needs to get out.