It was a good weekend, as weekends go.

There was a girl, this weekend past. The sort of girl who didn’t care what I made or how, encouraged me to toss aside a silly dress shirt in favor of old comfy cotton; a girl with eyes that sparkle in passing streetlamps, a giggle I can’t resist, or perhaps simply don’t want to. We share stories, grinning as we learn of each other.

I kissed her for the first time in Powell’s, against a long row of approving poets, and she tasted of Fall; all autumn spice and sweet crushed leaves. She kissed me against the car, bags falling from my hands to our laughter as their contents became unimportant.

We watched movies, and I stole glances at her, taking in the soft curve of her neck, the break of her hair against her shoulders, the way her slightly crooked smiles bloom across her face. Raven hair makes my fingertips itch to run through it as we kiss, to draw her in. She knows I am no trouble, despite my claims, and she curls into my arms.

Yet, she spooks easily, and there is little time before she returns to her native country. I hope we will have the chance to know each other, to learn the other’s nature, to give things a chance to grow as they will’t.

It lies in the hand of Dame Fortune now, and she has ever favored me with her riches…. we’ll see.