Twelve Hours

I recently read proof of something I always suspected. Men, the gruff half of the sandwich, are considerable more prone to nostalgia than women. They will hold and deify past flings with greater fervour, for longer, I suspect as some manner of behavioural evolutionary trait encouraging us to have a crack should we again cross paths.

As a guy, you realise that the common trope of living facing forward means little when you’re down and out. Everyone recolours the past through an updated lens. There isn’t much value in wasting such time in reflection, but if nothing else, it operates as a memory jog.


It was the very last day of her Colombian sojourn, prior to heading back to Sao Paolo, university, and graduate work. She was the type of woman who didn’t slap you across the face with overt sexuality, but with movement, the grace of a dancer, fitting oddly in to the slapdash styling of the bar.

Your eye was drawn upwards, from toned, athletic legs, small breasts hiding under her dress, to a pair of big browns. The coquettish lilt of her head. A shy smile, but relentless eye contact. She regarded me across the bar.

Whip-smart. Just completed her doctorate in neuroscience.

Great taste in music. A classic rocker.

Shot rum and drank beer, without an ounce of contrition.

A body that looked twice as good unwrapped and glistening with sweat. We chased the evening until 8am, when she kissed me with her nails wrapped in my chest hair and ran for the airport, leaving me smoking a Winslow in the window. I haven’t seen her since.


In reality? The setting, the sex, the sauce, and the momentum likely conspired to push this experience in to its current feted spot in my brain. It’s impossible to know better. Perhaps the true value lies in its recall.

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