Midnight film on a foreign rooftop

Listening to Fela while I pour a flat espresso that tastes like Lagos and burnt sugar; the kettle laughs like it's in on a secret. Tiny gold camera keychain tucked into my coat, Leica‑M on the chair with its strap coiled around my wrist like a promise.

A man on the terrace keeps stealing looks — older, hands that have built things, not just good at opening jars. I like directing and being watched; tonight I let the camera do the flirting, and when his gaze finally lands it feels like someone who's been practicing how to say a proper compliment.