A Memory

In a bathtub,
in a bar, 
in Budapest

I sip a cold hefeweizen 
my legs across your lap
and your hand on my thigh.

Sunlight washes down
through a glass ceiling 
and your voice is music--
not Beethoven or Bach, 
but modern indie rock, 
and I'm in love

in Budapest,
in a bar,
in a bathtub.