I left my heart in London 10 years ago and I haven’t tried to get it back. I’ve been there so many times between then and now I could practically naturalize myself, but immigration law doesn’t work that way. I have unattainable loves there who I yearn for but never want to end up with; they aren’t the kind you’d want to keep even if you could, and you can’t. I have grand visions of fantastic life and vibrant joy and whiskey sex and parties and black poetry. I’ve lived it in small spurts always peppered in between long blocks of confused idolatry of inconsistent men and jobs of small responsibility and even smaller consequence.
I’ve drunk a lot of bad gin waiting.
Now I’m back in Madrid. The fantasy is intact if not increasingly delicate. For now I can afford to feed myself and buy the next round, and that’s its own victory.