I arrived in Madrid already half cut and reeking of lavender; dazzled by movement, aeroplanes and the subway lights. By the time I reached Puerta del Sol my bag was hanging open, purse gone. Lost, penniless and already forgetting the handful of Spanish that I thought I knew, I called my mother reverse charges. ‘Wire me money,’ I said, when I really wanted to weep and ask her to come and get me. There was an echo on the line, one of those awful delay-lays that make-ake you hesitate-ate to speak more-or. I missed home for the first time ever.
Hm. Madrid number one is in Frenzy: 60 Stories of Sudden Sex. Some random blogger trashed that story rather horribly, and now it feels a bit tender to think of. But maybe tender is good.
Maybe some time soon as I have no time what the fuck am I doing here you should see my to-do list maybe some time soon I will get back to posting proper blogs and fiction. For now this is what I'm doing. Crawling in the dark. Throwing words ahead of me.
It makes me nervous. Maybe nervous is good.