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We would spend hours driving around the winding narrow streets between the tiny old villages south of Lisbon where you grew up and still live. You drove like a demon, cutting corners at 50 miles an hour, and wildly swerving around old grandmothers walking slowly across streets in front of the car. You were my only companion for the two months I lived in Portugal. We met each night but never once spoke on the phone. I hated your driving, hated the way you drove fast and furious making me cry and hide in my seat. You loved to scare me. Laughing good naturedly at my terror until I cried and then pulling the car over. You would mumble a thousand apologies, kiss my hands and face and repeat the word for "Joke" over and over while stifling giggles.
It was a nightly ritual, I would sit all day reading by myself and wait for you to get off of work and then we would drive aimlessly. There was nowhere to be and no one to care what we did. I couldn't speak a lick of Portuguese and you spoke no English at all. For two months we talked with our hands, our bodies, our eyes and our kisses.

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driving , fast , hopeless romantic , painting , portugal , bomberos , firefighters