You get out of the taxi and walk down the long driveway towards my house on the outskirts of Gothenburg. Out of the blue, I'd sent you a message: "My husband's away for a few days. Book a flight and a hotel :)." It hadn't taken much convincing and the whole plan had come together within a few hours.
You'd checked into your hotel and had gotten straight into a taxi to take you here. I lived at the end of a secluded private driveway, and you realised that either all the houses in Sweden were bigger than you thought, or I, or my husband, must have more money than you had assumed.
You feel wary walking down the driveway; wary that my husband has cancelled his trip and I haven't been able to tell you. You check your phone again: there are still no new messages. There's a single small car in the driveway; another reassuring sign.
You weren't really sure what to expect of Sweden in August but it's really quite warm today, especially at early afternoon. You couldn't help but wear your jeans as usual and, feeling clever about how thoughtful you were, the shirt I'd bought you in London. You know how much I love the outdoors so you have a sturdy pair of boots and a large Russian army surplus jacket that's definitely too big for the mild weather.
You step onto the wooden decking that leads to the front door and ring the bell. You're not sure if you hear a sound from inside or not, but you can't hear any footsteps. Feeling warm you take your coat off and drape it over your arm before ringing again. Still there's no sound, and no sign of me.
In this age of technology there's always a way to get in touch with someone so you take out your phone. You look up my details and start to call. It rings five times and then you hear the noise of a door opening above and to your right. You look up and see me standing on a balcony wrapped in a towel.
"Ooh, sorry. I'm just getting ready," I explain. I had told you that I'd be out for an hour or two this afternoon, meeting some friends for afternoon tea, but I forgot to mention that the doorbell doesn't work. You'd decided to come over anyway rather than wait until this evening.
You smile. It's that smile again. "No problem," you say, "I only just got here."
I lean on the balcony handrail and look down at you. I can't believe you're here, that I'm seeing you in the flesh again. It's been nearly a month since our encounter in London and we've barely spoken since that day. The fun we had in the park, it seemed a hard act to follow.
"Aren't you going to let me in?" you ask. I see you looking at my legs beneath the towel. I'm sure you can't see a great deal from down there, even if you are looking up. I keep it tightly wrapped around me.
"Let you in while I'm wearing just a towel? Not likely," I laugh.
You laugh too. "I've missed your laugh," you say with a wistful expression and my heart melts again.
"You could unfurl the towel and I'll climb up it?" you suggest. That brings a giggle from me.
"Oh, not likely, mister. I'll be down in a minute. Take your boots off anyway; I don't want you clomping around on my nice clean floors."
You put your coat across the low fence at the edge of the decking and untie and remove your boots. I stay leaning on the railing, watching with a smile.
"Erm, I don't see you coming down yet?" you say.
I laugh. "Well, you can wait down there until I'm ready if you like. I might be a while. But I'm not letting you in if I'm wearing less than you. You know our rules." I say the last with a wink.
"Our rules? I'd like to see you following rules," you joke.
"Not rules for me, silly. For you." You roll your eyes. "You agreed to be naked all the time, remember?"
"I agreed no such thing!"
"Well... you almost did. You would have done, but you were away with it at the time." That might actually be true. "And anyway, there's no way I'm going to be the one wearing the least in this relationship, and as I'm wrapped in only a towel you know what that means."
You sigh but, admit it, you knew what was going to happen, it was just a question of when.
"So come on then!" I prompt, as if I really am expecting you to follow my instructions rather than just hoping you will.
You pull off first one and then the other sock and tuck them into your boots.
"Shirt next," I helpfully suggest. I'm really quite happy that you've worn the short-sleeved one I bought you, and even happier that you start unbuttoning it unquestioningly. You slide it off your arms and go to toss it onto your coat.
"No. Chuck it up here," I instruct. You give it a throw and it drifts up towards me. I catch it and hold it to my chest. It's nice to see that bare torso again too.
"Trousers too," I say.
Wordlessly you unfasten your belt buckle and the top button of your jeans. I watch as you slide the zip down and then, leaning on the fence for balance, you pull the jeans off your right leg and then your left. You look up at me and toss the jeans towards me without being asked. I catch them and drop them on the balcony next to me.
"You know, I'm disappointed that you felt the need for those," I say, indicating your briefs. The sense of entitlement I have to your body makes your head spin; how did it get to this point so quickly? Neither of us knows the answer to that.
You look around, realising that you're standing at the end of a driveway in a suburb of Gothenburg in just your briefs, and you've just thrown most of your clothes up to a woman who hasn't been reticent about exposing your body in the past.
