#maybe folsom prison blues would also exist

[wren-of-the-woods]

I choose to believe that if Jaskier had been in that prison cell with Gordon for a while longer, he would have invented Jailhouse Rock by Elvis Presley.

[frontbottoms-babe]

we’re laden with water droplets from the downpour outside but the bar is enticing us with promises of sing-alongs to ABBA and costly vodka cranberries. this bar is quite different from the one we just came from; instead of flashing strobe lights, greek statues with penises painted bright gold against black stone, and men dressed head to toe in fishnet, this bar has a much more laid-back yet very ~heterosexual~ vibe. this is emphasized by the amount of old men at the bar who immediately ask my friends and me what we’re drinking. i haven’t yet mastered the talent of allowing men to buy drinks for me, so i turn my back on that venture and head with my friends into the thickening crowd near the two guitarists at the front.

as i’m passing a huddled mass of people by the front door, i suddenly remember the yellow rose katie gave to me while we were dashing through the cobblestoned streets of dublin not thirty minutes prior. i had stuck it in my cleavage at the time to keep it from getting wet, but of course nothing can stop the rain. i fish it out and pass it eagerly to the first boy i see without much more than a wink and passing smile.

well look at that!! the two men are playing johnny cash (specifically, folsom prison blues, one of my favorites), which seems to be a favorite of these irish singers. my friends and i dance happily to the music but i can’t stop thinking about how i am overwhelmed with the highs my heart and mind and body have experienced throughout this trip so far. it is so easy to lose yourself in the sway of music and the cloying press of warm bodies; i am a girl who is always looking to get lost.

and suddenly, i’m not lost. i’m found. he found me! i get a better look at him this time; he’s tall, definitely european, thin but lean and maybe even muscular under his black sweater. diana describing her type of man (“a man who looks like he can withstand the sun”) flashes to mind. he has big liquid brown eyes and more facial hair than i remembered seeing before, but yes, its the man i gave the yellow flower to. i guess its easy to remember the girl who gave you a present that came from in between her décolletage. 

we start talking and immediately the language barrier makes itself clear. he’s italian! but it’s adorable -- i want to spend my whole night trying to communicate and help him make sense of my language. and suddenly we’re kissing and he tastes like alcohol, or maybe that’s me, seven drinks in, a little too eager to touch his prickly cheeks. whenever we pause i can feel us both smiling against each other’s teeth or noses. 

in the background i hear sophie lament, “i don’t know how she does it.” well, yes, this *is* the second time sophie’s seen me make out passionately with a man in a public setting on this trip. but it also makes me laugh because i haven’t done anything except be my flirty self. sometimes you just have to kiss some strangers.

his long arms are around me and we can’t seem to stop kissing. who’s watching? who cares. my body is humming with that familiar satisfaction of legitimately melting into another person’s hands, lips, tongue, and teeth and my mind is happily blank with the joy of adventurously kissing a foreign man in a foreign bar in a foreign land. 

his friends are teasing us and telling me we look cute together and he is asking when i’m coming to visit and i’m laughing and thinking about how cool it would be to run away into that life and never look back. i am giggly with alcohol and the giddiness of being close to a stranger who knows how i taste. he’s twenty two and i’m just shy of twenty one and we will most likely never meet again but that’s so good, that’s the best part, this moment only exists in the here and now and i love the promise of that.