Fleeting Moments

Summer. You hold the word in your mouth, savor the taste on your tongue, push it into your cheek, let it melt slowly. There's something intimate about this city, this heat, this moment. You watch as she wipes the sweat from her forehead; condensation coalesces on your water bottle; your lipstick has stained the rim.

When the photos are developed, you look at them for a long time and you're taken back to that afternoon; to the heat of June. It started with the party you both decided to ditch and ended at the wine bar you can't remember the name of. You do remember laughingly begging Y to choose the wine, as both your knowledge and pronunciation of wines always fails you.

You both sat outside and embraced the warmth of the night; the couple next to you left a bad tip for the waiter; you told a bad joke and the sun set as she laughed.