All of a sudden your body doesn’t know if it should run in the opposite direction, overwhelmed by the insistence and the nerve of that live wire who arrived in Formentera to stay for good two years ago.
He isn’t interested in books and isn’t the 9 to 5 office type either. He says he feels free writing at dawn and driving his quad full pelt all over the island. He doesn’t care about money, as long as he has enough to live on without needing to have a bank account and wear a tie.
A stiff rum and coke and a roll-up cigarette is all he needs to end the day with a smile, quite happy to be living from day to day on an island that was once virgin.
Eating a chocolate and raspberry ice cream without caring how it melts on your salty chin. Jumping into the sea through the waves holding his hand, your body all bare, and then getting white sand all over you as you seek warmth and cover. Forgetting your watch in a fisherman’s hut – his nomadic refuge, which you made your own one day when you left the multicoloured sequin jacket there, the one you were wearing the first time he saw you.
The one you decided not to pack the day you were leaving. No rules, no plans; but promises yes. Just one, actually: ”forget me not as the sun sets”.