Products are independently selected by our editors. We may earn an affiliate commission from links. I convince myself I need to be in the arms of a woman, and I know exactly who to reach for. I first met Lana in Vienna, where we spent one fulfilling and devastating weekend together in , ended by borders and visas.
Our romance takes place in the Serbian summer light; a string of charged and tender days in Belgrade, her girlhood city, where she rents a quiet Airbnb for us with a balcony from which it seems summertime hues never stop shimmering.
I fall in love with the city, our version of it, and I fall for Lana too. We drink sweetened iced lattes under the bright Balkan sun and eat mediocre fried food at a strange American-themed diner and spend nights together in bed, our chests sweaty and sticky.
I Will Greet the Sun Again. Probably she sent the first one, on the impulsive basis that it was easier or more pleasurable than texting. I express myself maybe three percent as well orally as I do via keyboard. In short-term entanglements I have found myself consciously suppressing the brio with which I reflexively approach any written form.
I nearly type a semicolon, then opt instead for a spliced comma to intimate what a chill gal I am. But the summer of voice notes was different. We had been sort-of friends for many years, in a normal Irish diaspora sort of way, meeting up whenever we happened to be in the same city and not communicating much in between.
