Ah, Tania. I loved a woman named Tania once. She was Serbian and wild as a crazy-wild horse. I never once saw her comb her hair, and her blue, blue eyes could, and would, cut through you and lay bare your very essence for all the other drunks and wasters in the bar to see. We were young and crazy in love and did everything that crazy young love dictates. We fucked in department stores and at night we’d steal boats from the quay and drift to nowhere, drinking vodka and telling stories till the sun came up. Nothing that wild could last of course and we killed it ourselves in the end with secrets and unrealised promises. I have a wife and a dog now, and monthly commitments that arrive by post. I have a good son as well, and when he finds his blue-eyed, wild horse Serbian, I will quietly celebrate with champagne and the finest Cuban cigar money can buy and think of my Tania and my time, and feel the gentle tug of the world as it spins me around with it on its cycle of arcs and curves as it drifts through the universe to God knows where.