The BEST writing I've EVER done

Inspired by the style of Memoir from Antproof Case

It was a romance that burned hotter than most, which is no extraordinary thing - what’s extraordinary is how long it has burned hot.Not all men (if they are being honest), can say that they’ve had a grand and all-consuming passionate love affair in their lives - that they’ve had a “love of their lives.” Most men settle; they find their partners in the space between lurching after the biological urge and compromising their values and standards to buy a bit of comfort.I have had a love of my life - a star that shines so bright that it blots out all others while serving as a celestial beacon to navigate by to a mythological land of abundance. This is our love story, what we kindled now burns hotter than ever.

We met at a club, which might surprise passing acquaintances of mine - people tend to meet their partners online, at work, or through friends nowadays - but not anyone who has known me for more than a decade.Nightclubs, discos, dance clubs - whatever you want to call them - always made something in me come alive, even when I was sober. I’m an unapologetic dancer. The beat of the bass, the undulation of the revelers under the disco ball, the contrast between the crispness of the cool night air and the sweaty hotness of the inside of the club, I find it all thrilling. And I’ve had some of the most unforgettable nights of my life clubbing across three continents.So it’s really quite fitting that I met my wife at a club.

It was my second time in Sofia, Bulgaria and I had arranged to meet a friend, Nikolay at a language exchange at the Culture Beat Club.A “language exchange” is a cultural phenomenon that you can find in any cosmopolitan city and undeniable proof of my personal evolutionary psychology theory of sexually-driven linguistic adaptation and divergence. In short, since we came down from the trees as a species, men have desired the luscious loins of women but have been left wanting if there was a lack of fertile women in their tribe. Thus, many of our ancestors were men who ventured out into the unknown - across rivers, plains, and mountains - to find themselves a woman. They either had to take a woman by force or win her from her tribe with persuasive charm and/or meaningful labor, both options demanded linguistic adaptation. Either the man had to pick up the woman’s language to talk her family into handing her over or the woman was kidnapped and dragged back to the man’s tribe. Thus, language learning and the novelty of a foreign accent became entangled with one of the most exciting of human experiences, falling in love - that great descent into the depths of our carnal urges for each other.Culture Beat is located in the Bulgarian National Palace of Culture, this gargantuan white building (that looks like it belongs in a science fiction movie) looming over downtown Sofia.I got more than a bit lost in my meeting with destiny that night. I navigated the wrong way around this building that likely produces its own gravity well, entered the wrong entrance, rode the elevator up and down, and explored the cavernous and increasingly unpopulated and unlit interior in search of the club. Eventually, I ended up in a parking lot where I accosted a mother and daughter for directions; they led me to an architectural outcropping of the Palace of Culture where the club is perched. Finding my friend in the dimly lit club would prove a lot easier.

Funnily enough, the moment of our first encounter is a matter of debate. As I remember it, I was standing at a table with Nikolay and a few other forgettable occupants, and out of the crowd of darkened silhouettes, I gestured for a cute girl passing by to join us. Which she did with a smile, I introduced myself, and we had a brief yet pleasant conversation about something, well, totally forgettable.But by my wife’s account, she approached us because she knew Nikolay, and then Nikolay introduced me as his “drug dealer” friend. To settle the debate we’d have to audit the club’s security camera footage for the night of February 23, 2017.We ran back into each other a little while later, and I wouldn’t call it love at first sight, but there was electricity between us. I regaled her with my tales of travel and adventure. She was especially entertained by the account of the abuse I suffered at the vicious paws of a territorial cat with whom I had to share an Airbnb with in Odesa, Ukraine.But, with my three-word answer to a question of hers, I owned her body, mind, and soul forever. She asked what I did for work, and I responded, “I’m a writer.” My wife is, was, and will eternally be a voracious reader. She loves books so much that I suggest to our descendants that she be buried with books (in case of reanimation). Visibly, she could barely contain her curiosity about me - from that moment on she was mine to do with as I pleased. After finding each other and finding each other again in the club, we exchanged Facebook contact details and went our separate ways into the crisp Bulgarian night.

Some romances are like stubborn logs piled in a fireplace, that take a bit of effort and prodding of kindling to become inflamed - such was ours. Shortly after meeting, my tourist VISA in Bulgaria ran out of time, and I boarded a train for Istanbul. I was uncertain at the time if I’d even return to Bulgaria and I wanted to give Istanbul (supposedly, one of the great cities of the world) the chance to entice me, so I left a few messages from her unanswered which did not please her. While I enjoyed sipping dark Turkish-style tea in the cafes of Taksim, Istanbul would prove disagreeable to my tastes (well, mostly my taste for fast wifi). So I decided to leave that city where the kitties so boldly stroll through grocery store aisles.

Back in Bulgaria, I hadn’t noticed that she unfriended me on Facebook, she was understandably irate that I hadn’t stayed in touch as I ventured toward Asia Minor.But, fate saw fit to give me a second chance; “Hello Mr. Roseland” I heard from behind me at a Couchsurfing meet-up as she ran her curious fingers over my shoulder. The seat was open beside me and she required about 11 minutes of charm to be persuaded to re-friend me on Facebook, that night she and a friend invited me to a nearby local hip-hop show. When a bouncier beat moved me I grabbed her and dragged her (inspired, no doubt, by my cavemen ancestors) to the dancefloor for a bit more vigorous interaction. We’d part ways again into the night and I’d do a little better job with my QWERTY communications.

A few weeks later we arranged our first (let’s not call it a) date in an appropriately ambient environment. Intending to escalate beyond dry conversation, I selected seating and maneuvered our bodies at a 90-degree angle to each other. Impatient to taste if her tongue was as sweet as her accent, I leaned in to kiss her at the closest thing to an opportune moment. Half expecting to be rebuffed, I was pleasantly surprised at her surrender. I withdrew and we continued the conversation as her stare spoke much. Our tongues would continue to tango there between talk of travel, family, pets, and... I really don’t recall what else as I was so enjoying the tenderness of her lips! Her beauty and womanly softness were such that I resolved to seduce her, maybe not that night, but I resolved to explore every inch of her. I walked her home, hand in hand, with a newfound lightness in my step. I drifted off to sleep imagining the thrill of dining, wine-ing, and intertwining further with her.

After a few more encounters, it was clear that our bodies were aching for each other. She lived with her mother and I was staying at a hostel with sweaty tou