Charlotte

there I was, rattling along through the grey English drizzle, the underground train clicking under my feet, when I spotted her across the aisle — dark hair falling wild, eyes like midnight streets — and I leaned over, heart going that crazy beat, and asked if I could take her photo, just a quick one or two, black and white, the shadows deep and honest, cropped tight the way life cuts you.

she said yes, soft, with a smile that lit the whole damn carriage.

“Do you like to dance?” she asked, her voice rolling out like smoke from a late-night club.

“Yes,” I said, “but only that old 70s disco, the real stuff — Bee Gees wailing, lights flashing, bodies moving like they’re praying to the beat.”

“What about house?” she said, leaning in. “it’s the same animal. all pulse and sweat.”

And we blew into it then, words flying fast as the country blurring past the window — London exploding with bass and ecstasy kids, Paris chic and underground in its caves, Munich thumping hard in the beer-soaked halls, the crowds wild and different everywhere, venues hidden in warehouses or glittering up on rooftops, and the late-night food stands after the clubs shut down, steam rising, hungry souls lining up under neon.

She smiled again, that smile hitting me like a saxophone solo, long and sweet.

“There’s a drum and bass party in Old Street tonight,” she said, eyes bright. “Will you dance with me there, real close, and I’ll cook you breakfast tomorrow — eggs and coffee and all.”

“Only if I can do the dishes,” I shot back, grinning in the rain.

Her name was Charlotte, from New York, a journalist chasing stories like I chase words, and Lord, the whole of her was lit up like the curve of a highway at twilight, calling a man onward into the night.

grabbed her number,
danced drunk, ate greasy breakfast,
got married in June