The Love of My Life Is Hiding In: Copenhagen

I’m in Copenhagen, and the love of my life might be here, too.

He’s tall and tattooed. Not very attractive, and yet I’m very attracted to him. It’s something about the effortlessness in which he carries himself. He stands out without meaning to, but fits perfectly next to me.

We meet at a café where he’s drinking black tea and reading my favorite novel. We spend the next forty-five minutes talking about literature and life. He reads even more than me, and aspires to be a translator. He doesn’t ask me for my phone number when we part ways, but finds me online a few weeks later after he purchases and reads my books.

I fall in love with his substantial personal library and his abnormally long fingers and the small details of his face. We never run out of things to talk about, even when we aren’t talking about anything at all. He speaks slowly but he’s quick, and his wit often catches me off guard.

When I move to Copenhagen to be closer to him, no one is surprised. Mom likes how intelligent he is. Dad likes that he’s not easily intimidated. Paris likes that he’s goofy and they have too many inside jokes. Lauren likes how he dresses and that she always has a place to stay when she visit Copenhagen. He has a big, loud family so he isn’t thrown by mine. We want to get married just for a reason to get them all together in one place.

We never agree on what movies to see or what series to watch. My eating habits and general indecisiveness infuriate him. Sometimes I won’t kiss him because he tastes like cigarettes, and he’s a bit of an asshole when he’s drunk. But once in a while, we smoke weed and take walks through the rain while we’re a little high, and it’s in those moments, especially, I know that I’m right where I’m supposed to be.

Is this the one, or am I destined for one of my other—French, German, Swedish, Moroccan—loves? I’ll tell you if I find him, y’all. In the meantime, which one are you rooting for?

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