Love For Sure

I woke at 6:30am as usual. My internal alarm never fails. No matter what time I go to sleep, I always wake at 6:30am. This doesn't mean I arise at this time. Often I find myself drifting off back to sleep for another hour or so, but there's something within my psyche that requires that I be conscious at this hour of the day. As I gained my wits, I felt my left arm was wrapped around Sarah's abdomen and my face buried into the back of her neck. The smell of coconut and lime scented moisturiser filled my nostrils as I took my first deep breath of the morning. I felt comfortable and happy. This is always my favourite part of the day, waking up, at 6:30am, feeling Sarah next to me and realising that I am in love. As Sarah awoke she turned to lie on her back and twisted her neck towards me. We kissed tenderly and I lingered on her bottom lip for a few seconds in order to savour the experience. "Jag älska dig så mycket" I said sweetly as we nuzzled our noses together. "Jag älska dig också" she replied with a grin. We giggled, made cooing noises and held each other tight.

It is approaching two years since Sarah and I met. I had just moved to Stockholm and was in a pretty raw funk. I had been stagnant, bored and lonely in Melbourne and had decided that this move was the appropriate solution. The idea of moving to Sweden had initially been formed in 2004. I was taking Swedish language classes at the Centre for Adult Education and had formed a friendship with one of the girls in the class. Alice, like me, was a drifter, never feeling settled, always believing that something better lay somewhere else. Both of us were full of grand ideas with little forethought to their implementation, and so we formulated the idea of moving to Sweden together. We were positive it was the place where we would both be able to fulfil our dreams; me as a hot-shot writer and her and something different almost daily. Unfortunately, our plans came to a demise several months later when Alice kissed some 40-plus dad-rocker and I refused to speak to her for a month. Although Alice and I weren’t an item, we were very close and I couldn’t handle the idea of someone I cared about becoming intimate with such a regressive and unsatisfactory being. Situations like this had become reasonably common with me. I’d develop close female friendships that would fail to progress; companionships, but never partnerships. It was a combination of my low self-esteem, tendency towards self-sabotage, and my perplexity at what I perceived as the ridiculousness of heterosexual couplings that consistently caused these relationships to spoil. So, whilst Alice decided to flee to Washington D.C., I suppressed my dreams for another year and wallowed in my languor working a stale job in a lonely town; being perpetually consigned to solitude. However, by mid-2006 I had had enough. My perpetual loneliness and inability to inspire and motivate myself required an immediate solution. So I sold my belongings, packed a bag and transplanted myself to Sweden.

The move, however, wasn’t particularly well planned. I knew no-one, had no idea how to secure a place of residence or gainful employment, and my language skills were poor. Rather than spend my time exploring the various districts of the Stockholm archipelago, trying to meet people or find a job, I would instead lie around in my hostel bed pining for the life I had left behind in Melbourne. One day, in order to prevent further moping, I decided to go for a walk over to the hip record store, Pet Sounds, in Södermalm. The romantic fantasy of meeting a girl in a record store was an idea I'd never tired of, and at that time I was desperate to meet someone, anyone, regardless of gender. As I was flicking my way through the racks of obscure Swedish pop and modern day indie classics I noticed that an interesting looking girl had entered the store carrying a small box of CDs. Although I couldn't make out all of the conversation she was having with the guy behind the counter, it was obvious that the CDs in the box were of music that she had made herself and she was hoping that the store would stock them. I felt like this could be a good opportunity for me to make a connection. I had taken a risk by abandoning my life in Melbourne to start afresh in Stockholm, so it shouldn’t be too difficult to take that one further risk and attempt to engage this girl in conversation. I decided I would approach her and enquire about her music; it was the most obvious ice-breaker. I was hoping that the flattery she would feel in having someone ask about her art would cancel out any apprehension she might normally experience upon being approached by a stranger.

"Ursäkta mig, talar du engelska?" I said, knowing that my limited Swedish would falter in a proper conversation. "Ja, I do" she replied shyly. From her initial demeanour it was obvious that in order for this conversation to blossom I would have to do a lot of the work. This was not something I was accustomed to, but if I was hoping to make a connection with this girl I was going to have to make the effort. I asked her if that was her own music in the box she was carrying. She replied in the affirmative and I proceeded to ask numerous questions about her music. She was a modest about the details, but I managed to get out of her that she made bedroom electro-pop under the name Action Biker.

Just as I thought the conversation was starting to dissolve, and she would make her excuses to leave, to my surprise she started to ask questions of me: Where was I form? What was I doing in Stockholm? Then when I mentioned that I was having trouble finding a place to live she somewhat astonishingly enthused "You can come stay with me!" She told me there was a spare room in her flat in Gamla Stan. She said the flat belonged to her grandparents, but the confined spaces and cobbled stoned streets of the old town had become too difficult for them to negotiate in their mature age. So they'd decided to move out to Västerås and leave the flat to Sarah at a cheap rent. "I'm sure they wouldn't mind if you moved in.", Sarah said, "there's definitely the space, and I think they'd take pity on a lost foreigner." I was a little taken back by how she could make an offer after such a limited conversation and I gushed "Are you sure?" several times. "Yes, of course", she said, "you are nice!" As if that was reason enough.


Her home was on the top floor of a building down the south end of Prästgatan, near the old parsonage for the German church. The flat had three bedrooms, one of which was, obviously, Sarah's, another of which she had set up a small home recording studio and the third that, for an initial period, became mine. Becoming acquainted with my new surroundings was a delight. The medieval architecture and confined cobbled streets was a vastly different environment to what I had been used to, living in Melbourne. For a while after I moved into Sarah’s flat I would wander aimless around Gamla Stan, exploring the streets and alleys of the old working class area. In recent years the aesthetic value placed on the antique look of the island had significant changed its demographics. No longer a working class area, the island had become a magnet for the educated and sociable middle classes. Whilst this gave the area a certain stench of pretension, it did provide the area with a wide variety of distractions. Frequently Sarah would join me as I undertake my reconnaissance missions. We would eat lunch in cool little cafés and tea rooms or visit secluded and hip basement bars at night. Our rapport was developing and we were growing rather fond of each other's company. Furthermore, I was not only breaking out of my mental stupor and blossoming as a human being, but also starting to actually enjoy myself! It had become apparent to me that my decision to move to Stockholm was genuinely excellent one.

One day whilst out exploring the neighbourhood, strolling down the alleyway of Nygränd, I noticed a Help Wanted sign in the window of a restaurant. Although I couldn't read all of the text, I could make out that they were looking for a dishwasher. Washing dishes was hardly what I came to Stockholm for, but I decided that I needed the money and that I would apply for the position. The restaurant was called Fem Små Hus, served a combination of Swedish and French cuisine and apparently had quite a reputation amongst Stockholm's culinary critics (they'd plastered their dinning room walls with awards and positive reviews). It wasn't the most ideal job, especially for a vegetarian with an acute mistrust of dairy products, but without a fluent knowledge of Swedish my options were very limited. And besides, I told myself, a job such as this would build character, keep me connected to the struggle of the proletariat whilst I was pursuing my bourgeois dreams of becoming a writer.

As one who the Swedes describe as a "native speaker" of English, I didn't find it too difficult to pick up some freelance writing work for some pan-Scandinavian magazines that publish in the language. I began to write for publications such as Scanorama, the in-flight magazine for Scandinavian Airlines, where I'd compose blurbs about Stockholm’s tourist attractions, as well as the Nordic issue of Vice Magazine who were delighted with my witty and cutting music reviews (something I’d excelled at back in Melbourne). Although my evenings were occupied with washing off the disgusting remains of cheese-infused animal carcasses from pots and plates, the position had the advantage of leaving me all day to work on not only my freelance work, but also a series of personal short stories that I was hoping to eventually get published. I thought that once I was able to compile a number of quality stories I would be able to shop them around to a few publishers in the hope that one might express some interest. The idea of having a book of personal and personality based short stories was to cultivate a singular public persona for myself that I could utilise to gain some sort of leverage and repute for other subjects I would like to write about. I knew I had a unique perspective, it was just a matter of being able to gain some attention.

Over this time Sarah and I evolved our friendship into a familiar and meaningful bond. The logistics of our lives became intertwined and I exhibited an ease in her presence that I had never experienced previously. We shared similar ideas about culture and politics and a disdain for ridiculous social conventions like drinking coffee. When our opinions did differ our debates were lively and robust, yet never without respect and regard for the others point of view. I had begun to believe that Sarah and I should take our relationship up a notch and express our fondness for each other in a physical manner. Unfortunately, broaching such a subject is not the easiest of tasks, especially when I felt uncomfortable ethics of heterosexual couplings. This has always been a major problem for me. How could I, as a man, justify intimate relations with a woman? Specifically such a beautiful and amazing woman as her. To me, heterosexuality just doesn't seem equitable. It seems grossly unfair to the female participant. It’s like having a dish from a Michelin Star restaurant on the same plate as a week-old, rain-sodden Big Mac. It makes little sense to me. If I were to become sexually involved with Sarah would I be perpetuating this raw deal women have received since the beginning of time? Surely it would be a selfish act for me to inflict such an injustice on someone I care for? Yet there was an undeniable fire that burned in my loins and the tension that it caused between my principled rationale and my animal instinct was becoming a source of frustration for me. I tried to sooth this anxiety by telling myself that, although Sarah deserved better than the ceaseless and wretched shortcomings of masculinity, at least if she were to become involved with me, my hyper-sensitivity to man's flawed essence, and my willingness to rectify this, would go some way ensuring that she would be treated in the respectful manner that she deserved.

My concerns became redundant when one night, whilst Sarah and I were watching a documentary on 18th century Swedish emigration to North America, she leaned over and planted a kiss sweetly on my lips. I couldn't help but reciprocate, yet when we separated I smiled and asked, "What was that for?” "I've wanted to do that for the longest time. I just couldn't resist any longer. I hope you don't mind?" she replied. "I'll only mind if it was just a once off" I said cheekily, and we fell back into an extended tender and passionate merging of souls. Kissing Sarah was a phenomenal experience and I had never felt so good before. My extremely limited exposure to physical intimacy until that point had given me, what I believed to be, an appreciation of the activity above those who experience it regularly and I felt compelled to savour every micro-moment. Despite my previous apprehension, when locked in embrace with her the idea of us being together seemed perfect. I looked at her directly and gushed "I promise to love and respect you for eternity. I know that's a rather maudlin thing to say, but it's important to me to express this sentiment. I don't want to be like other guys." She laughed, "I know you are not like other guys. This is why I have fallen for you." We embraced again and my heart sighed, wiped its brow and grinned expansively.

#######

I hate having to leave our bed in the morning. I could just lie there and snuggle with Sarah forever. There is nothing that makes me happier. Unfortunately though this morning we had to rise not long after our 6.30am wakening. Sarah had a show that night in Malmö and I had organised an interview with controversial Faeroes pro-independence politician Høgni Karsten Hoydal that afternoon across in Copenhagen. We had borrowed Sarah's parents’ car in order to drive the 6 hours south, so time for snuggling was unfortunately just not available. I consoled myself with the fact that I would at least get to spend the day with her in the car and that after the show that evening we would once again be able to express our affection for each other in an intimate and amorous manner. As we had one final kiss before having to arise I couldn't help thinking how wonderfully my move to Stockholm had turned out for me. My writing was going exceedingly well, with my book of personal short stories having been recently published giving me the levity and self-confidence to pursue topics of my choice. But the most important element to my spiritual contentment was the fact that I had finally found true love. Sarah and I knew that we were to be together forever and that, regardless of any of my other successes, was what made me the happiest.