I’m in love with Ruth Perrin.
Or, at least, I was.
She is the only woman I have ever loved and I sometimes imagine a world where I show up in London and whisk her away to Moscow. She’ll miss me as much as I miss her and we’ll eat exotic chocolates together and drink obscenely alcoholic drinks.
We’ll make love on really soft hypo-allergenic pillows on the floor of an incredibly expensive hotel room and fall asleep in each other’s arms.
And when I wake up, she’ll still be there. And we’ll kiss and smile and I’ll get us breakfast and everything will be drenched in that perfect golden sunshine that is usually only obtainable in Instagram.
That’s my confession.