My New Favourite Game
I call it "How much authentic Italian food can I fit into my stomach before I leave tomorrow?"
The salty tears of sadness and nostalgia that I let slide down my face as I chew only serve to add to the flavours.
Boys who are so awesome they have two names.
His name was Gianluca, and he was exactly the type you aren't supposed to like: bolshy, demanding, and uncompromising. He was the kind to push you to your absolute limits; he'd have you questioning your own self, experimenting with the ways he could disarm you with his blistering blue eyes and cheeky wink, juxtaposed against his quick-wit and debilitating honesty. Just as you thought you couldn't possibly take anymore of his tricks of the mind he’d have a habit of catching you as you are about to metaphorically fall, gently slipping his hand into yours as you walk in the garden. You’d meander in contented silence, the dynamic redefined by this new intimacy, until the games began again and you are more perplexed than you were before this small gesture of togetherness. He was exhausting, and confusing, and six years old. Six. Six year olds are my thing. I've run workshops on teaching six year olds. I have a job teaching six years olds come the autumn. I've done it...
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