An experiment into second-person perspective.
You drape your legs over his, sitting on an unrelenting bench at the train station. He accepts them, tracing the holes in your leggings with one finger.
You invited him out to come see you and your friends. But by the time he got there you had had too much wine and not enough pizza.
He wore a hat inside the bar, which you remember being vaguely annoyed about. But you forgot, as he sat so close to you, sinking into the overly soft chairs in the little booth.
You both asked for the window to be shut.
You’ve been seeing each other for months now. It’s not even the type of seeing with inverted commas, ones that hang heavy in the air when spoken. Just occasional meetings up, where one of you is always drunker than the other. You’ve been to one another’s houses, but not often. It’s too far away, and you can barely navigate roads in the day time. You know you don’t quite like him enough to make a proper commitment. But there are moments when you think you could love him.