After a quick nap, I make him get up. “We’re in Amsterdam! Let’s take a walk or something.”

We walk to a coffeeshop and buy a joint. We smoke about half of it there, and take the rest with us for later. We continue walking around in near silence. Neither of us likes to talk much when we’re high. We’re both in our heads.

“Did you see that dog?” he asks me at one point.

“What dog? No. I didn’t see any dog,” I say.

“Oh. It was strange looking,” he says.

I’m pretty sure there was no dog.

We walk around a little longer, then wander back to the hotel.

He’s told me before that he doesn’t like having sex when he’s high. But I do. And I intend to change his mind.

The next day, we get breakfast and then rent a pair of bicycles. We ask the hotel concierge about scenic routes to bike outside of the city and, in a very concierge-like fashion, the man takes out a map and highlights several routes for us. We decide to go for the one that will take us along the canal.

We need to bike through the city for a bit, but eventually we wind up on a more country-esque route with little traffic, except for fellow cyclists. We’re following a path with a houseboat-dotted canal on our left and green pastures on our right.

We start to turn around a bend, and I see something in the sky, just above the treeline.

“Is that a windmill!?” I ask, very excitedly.

He laughs, “Yeah, sure does look like a windmill.”

“We have to get a picture in front of the windmill!” I say.

So we stop and snap some photos in front of the wooden windmill. We bike a little further, and come upon a Biergarten along the water. We stop for a drink.

We sit at a table, looking out over the water, and order two beers, as a pair of swans swim by.

“What’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever done for you?” he asks.

I think long and hard. “As sad as it is to say, nothing really. I’ve never had romance like that. I don’t know if I want it either. I mean, it’s sort of unnecessary, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” he says, “I used to be romantic. Like, scatter rose petals all over the bed kind of romantic. Not anymore though.”

“What happened?”

“Life, I guess.”

“Ya know, I was thinking, though… This is really sort of romantic.”

“What?” he asks, “This bike ride?”

“Well, yeah, that. But the whole thing. Like, me taking the train from Belgium. And you flying in for the weekend to meet me here. It’s a little romantic.”

“Gross.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

The server comes over and places our beers on the table.

“To… romance?” I say, raising my glass, “Or lack thereof.”

“I’ll drink to that,” he says, “Cheers.”

The next night, our last night, we’re walking again, heading in the direction of the Red Light District. We’ve been in Amsterdam two and a half days, with lots of walking. Mike wasn’t lying when he said he’s not romantic anymore. He doesn’t open doors for me, he doesn’t put an arm around me, he doesn’t hold my hand. Maybe he’s just not a PDA guy. And that’s fine, but it’s just something I noticed after spending several straight days with him, all day and all night.

This last night, we turn down a street we haven’t been down before. First, we’re walking side by side, then it gets a little more crowded, so he walks in front of me, and I’m right behind. We continue along the street as it becomes more like an alley. As it narrows, it becomes increasingly crowded. A tall man somehow steps in front of me, cutting off my view of Mike. We’re nearing the end of the street/alley, and I can see an entrance to a store just ahead of me on my left.

I hear the tall man in front of me shout, “What the fuck? Keep moving, bro!”

I try to see what’s going on in front of him, but I can’t. Then, I see Mike jump to the left, into the store entrance. The tall man continues walking by the entrance, and Mike grabs my hand and pulls me into the store.

He’s holding my hand tightly, like a parent might hold the hand of a child who’s misbehaving.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Are you okay?” Mike asks. He sounds panicked.

“Yeah…” I say. I’m confused.

He exhales audibly and a look of relief washes over him. He’s still holding my hand, grip loosened.

“I glanced behind me and didn’t see you,” he says, “I thought you were gone. Like, someone could’ve just pulled you into a door or something. That guy was behind me, you were gone, and I just thought maybe someone grabbed you…”

He is genuinely concerned. More than I’ve ever seen in him before. Like some sort of fight or flight reflex kicked in for a moment and it was fight.

“Shit.” I say, “No, I’m fine.”

We start walking again, side by side, and he eventually lets go of my hand. That’s when I realize he’s never held my hand before. It’s sort of charming, in a stereotypical way. He won’t hold my hand by choice, but in a panic, he’ll grab it out of instinct as a mode of protection.

We make our way to a place called “High Snack”, and share a big cone of fries with mayo.

“Like, how the fuck would I ever explain it if you disappeared in Amsterdam on my watch?” he says, with a laugh.

I look down and notice that I accidentally dipped my jacket sleeve in the cup of mayo. “Can’t take me anywhere,” I say.