I saw a French girl on a train who made me wish I knew French.

She had a wide-brimmed hat and wavy red hair and rosy cheeks. And I was there, two seats down, thinking, Je t’aime! Je t’aime! without knowing what it meant.


I met an Australian girl in Spain. There were six of us foreigners altogether, wandering the San Sebastian beachside, laughing at everything. The Australian girl walked beside me.

“I like Australian accents,” I said. Real charmer.

“I don’t have an accent. You do.”

I believed her.

We all went to a hotel and drank cheap wine out of a box, passing it around even though most of us met for the first time that night. The intimate moments we share with strangers.

“Cheers, mate,” she said as I passed the wine. I don’t remember her name, but I remember the way she said those two words.


An American girl once knocked on my hostel room door.

“I’m going to get my tongue pierced. Want to come?”

We found a relatively clean place.

“You don’t have to watch.”

“I’ll be right here.”

I watched her facing profile with her tongue sticking out like a pink diving board. I watched the needle go through the top and out the bottom. I watched the tear fall from her eye. She never made a sound as the stud went in.

She had a lisp the rest of the time I knew her. I made fun of her for it. We danced to a band of jazz buskers in Barcelona twilight. Her name was lost in the music and the memory.


It’s easy to love someone whose name you don’t remember. We don’t name memories. We don’t name dreams. We don’t name feelings.

Love is just a word.






 Day 307’s three random writing prompt categories were, “The lovers,” “Nonfiction,” and, “Romance.”


– H.

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