I can smell the slight hint of summer now. It's somewhat like my temper, smouldering in some tiny crevice of a long long day.
Sometimes, I wonder about a not so long past, which seems so far far away now. Back in school, every Saturday evening, I didn't fail to turn up at Mr David's garden, on Elgin Road. If I remember right, the house number was 28. But no matter how much I try, I can't remember his first name anymore. I am also 28.
Mr David was a short frail man with snow white hair who used to stitch his own denims. He smiled as I tried to rehearse Shakespeare. And then our conversations would drift off into short stories...tales of imagination interwoven with things much more uncomplicated than what I write on today. For instance, even this. Would Mr David agree?
I don't know. Mr David is perhaps more frail now...haven't met him in ages. But I know he still remembers me. He always told me that he would...
