Everyone has that dream, don't they? Your life's getting you down; maybe work's a hassle, your friends are somehow married and settled down and you're single because you've been recently dumped, and your parents are calling you every other day to remind you to do some favour for your distant relative you haven't seen for twenty years and your neighbour's got the fucking builders in who like to start banging away at what-the-fuck-time-is-this-o'clock and your best friend has decided to try and induct you into this weird cult-like thing that you're pretty sure is an actual cult and your fucking watch broke and your car's fucked and you ruined your favourite shirt by running it through the wash with a pair of your exes hot-pink underwear so now half your clothes are this lurid fucking fluorescent fucking highlighter pink colour and ugh.

You've had the fuck enough with everything.

So you use some of that precious time off you've accrued, and book yourself a last-minute trip somewhere. You tell your boss it's just for a couple of days but in reality you've gone for a whole fortnight because fuck it even if you just sit in your room and cry at least you're doing it in foreign far off lands.

You get to the airport and it's a nightmare; there's a delay, there's a problem with the plane, you try and unsuccessfully flirt with a woman in the airport bar only to find out that her husband's turning up and he's a big fucker of a guy who looks like he'd crush your balls with his little finger. You apologise, run away, and end up drinking far too much in another bar you come across.

The flight's a little hazy, but you vaguely recall sitting wedged against the window by someone who doesn't understand the concept of personal space, being kicked in the back by some little shit who you so desperately want to throw into the plane's engine, and with your knees crushed by some old dear in front of you who's decided to recline just as far as she possibly can.

When you land, somewhere between being told half your luggage is missing, and finding out that you've got a dozen voicemails from your boss who forgot you booked the time off, you decide to fuck it all. You're done. Donezo.

You hop in the nearest mode of transportation, and off you go. The hotel soon looms in front of you, and you realise that maybe the site was a little generous in how wonderful they made it seem. Maybe they added two or three or four stars to this place because it makes Fawlty Towers look like the fucking Ritz.

You abandon your booking. It's the first truly spontaneous thing you've done for a while; even this stress-induced holiday was meticulously fucking planned.

You jump on the first train you can find. You squeeze yourself into a seat, hugging your bags to your chest like there's a dead man's trigger nestled in your boxers. The countryside whips past you outside the window, and as one kind of landscape gives way to another, you find yourself relaxing, just a bit.

The voice over the tannoy announces the next stop in some language you don't really know at all, but you decide that this one's going to be the place you get off at. Alighting on the platform, you discover a pleasantly airy kind of place; immediately you can tell that this is a relaxing kind of place, and decide to stay.

You hop into a taxi, and tell the driver- who speaks excellent English, that you want to go to a hotel. You don't much care which one. He nods, and takes you to a cosy little place that almost screams you. You thank him, ask for his card, and promise that if you're going to go anywhere, you're going to use him and only him. He grins, shakes your hand, and you know that you've made a friend. Maybe not for life, but certainly for the duration.

The room you end up in a suite; bedroom, sitting room, en suite. You marvel at the size, and the comfort. Jet lag overcomes you, and you have just enough time to plough through half your room service meal, and ask for a wake up call, before you fall asleep, half your clothes still on.

Morning comes, and you wake, shower, breakfast, dress- not necessarily in that order. You call the concierge- the hotel has a concierge!- and ask them to do something about maybe getting the rest of your luggage.

You head out. You wander. You explore. You get lost. Little by little you unwind. You relax. You feel yourself becoming more like yourself and less like the angry little ball of hate and vitriol you seem to have become lately.

You lunch in a small cafe by the river; it's sunny, and quiet, and you dine on a couple of the local delicacies. Nearby, a young lady dines alone also, some sort of book in front of her. You consider talking to her- she is very pretty after all- and then decide not to when you think you wouldn't like to be disturbed. You watch her awhile, trying to figure out if she's a local or a holidaymaker, like you. You reconsider talking to her. Emboldened by the alcohol in your stomach and the feeling of contentment seeping slowly into your soul, you stand.

You stroll over.

You greet her.

And your life changes

So first things first- no, this won't be second person or present tense. I just got sort of caught up in everything and decided to run with it.

Secondly, I have no fucking idea where I want to go with this; a kernel of an idea became whatever the hell this is.

Will there be a language barrier? Where the fuck Is* this?! Is it a holiday romance? Is it the start of something more? Will one or both relocate? Who knows?!

I like long-term, slow-burning stuff with lots of character development and plot and story. I'd like a ton of romance and sweetness and all that shit.

If this is up, I'm still looking.