I miss touching S., having her body near me, the private pillow talk of couples.
My whole being cries out for love, for something different. Nothing in my face or movements betrays it: I’m Danish after all. Denmark is considered one of the world’s happiest countries. That’s always confused me. It seems too real to me, with its lifeless suburbs and perfectly sensible people. So real it’s dreamlike. Happiness here means nothing and no one out of joint: no cracks, no one out of the system.