Lucia & I traveled to Habana for the weekend, to spend some time alone & for the first time, we went to brunch. On a three-quarter-mile stretch, her freshly washed & conditioned curls stood their ground against the breeze brushing against the nape of her neck. I admired the way her hips moved in unison with her breath, each step drifting me closer into her magnetic field. You’re a drifter, you know that? Playfully, I nodded my head, hands barely touching her & the wind, a bridge between our fingers. I hear they have blueberry crepes at this place, filled with ricotta & lemon. Her face lit up like Habana nightlife. I hope you’re right! as she winked herself through the open door. Later that night, sitting on the porch swing of our casa particular, listening to the waves wrestle with God, I kissed her forehead. I want a blueberry crepe kind of love: one where the blueberries can actually all fit inside the thin layer of pancake batter—but just barely—because when I sink my teeth into the first bite, I want to taste everything. Sweet & subtle ricotta, airy batter & warm juices from blueberries fresh off the bush. The type of love that spills down my beard as I playfully wipe it away, never really wanting it to leave. I want to love you the way our server should’ve taken good care of your crepe — with gentleness & a roughness that serves only to hold your beautiful parts together. Jesus, I loved your hair today.
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