This is a photo of me and my boyfriend taken in the mirror of a bathroom somewhere in Bushwick and I don’t want you to be too concerned about that. I knew from the moment we met that we were going to cause trouble together, and probably a lot of it. And I liked that prospect. Because trouble alone leaves you with a lot of explaining to do. Trouble together leaves you both in stitches, laughing and running down the sidewalk.

Since we met, we’ve spent an evening committing 40 misdemeanors with the help of a rental car that we drove over 300 miles around the island of Manhattan, with a tarp protecting the evidence in the trunk. We’ve admittedly seen more sunsets as a result of forgotten bedtimes rather than ambitious mornings. We’ve traversed continents, slowly sipping drips of absinthe in seductive bars in Paris and climbing ruins over 6000 years old in Lebanon while simultaneously trying to avoid my ex-boyfriend (it’s a long and very strange story, but mostly, it’s history) We’ve drunk wine from a bota snuck underneath my dress in the middle of summer at the 601st running of a biannual horse race in Italy. We’ve chosen to sleep in a tiny Fiat instead of the Villa it was parked in front of because of what was definitely a ghost. We’ve found our bathing suits just in time to see the fun police prancing up to our lean-to on horseback on a beach in Queens. We’ve laughed and screamed so loudly in our apartment, I feel like I should leave monthly fruit baskets for the neighbors.

I wanted someone to be wild with, and I found him. Wild with passion, in all of its polarizing and tantalizing beauty.

City love, I suppose they call it. I think I’ll hold onto it.