I am not a smoker, but on nights like this, I feel like smoking. I go out on the balcony and open the window frames. The skirt is wide enough to sit on; the railing is close enough to raise my feet. I lean my bare back on the window and the touch of the cold glass is chilling. But it feels good.
I think about past summers. Endless sleepless nights in the park alleys, liquor and outdoor disco clubs on the beach, ice cream, night bathing in the sea, sincere conversations and intimate secrets quietly shared, and at dawn the long walk back home while gulls are waking up.
Yellow taxis pass through the night bellow my bare feet. I am not the only one awake. But what I started to say was that on nights like this I forget about everything else and I only think about you.