It’s not meant to be a story; it’s the fantasy of a rainy day and a cold breeze. A breeze that smells of salt and pushes the window open. Across the street, there’s an identical row of English houses and I draw the heavy curtain so I cannot see them. I lay in bed, in the morning half-light, with that breeze as my only cover. There is no tension, in the air, in my muscles. There is no sound but that which allows the song of the morning sea to wave in. There’s a shore behind the window, with sun-kissed sands and lost shells. I climb on the window still and sit with my legs in the water. It’s cold, untainted, inviting. The promising sun is a mirror. The mirror of a romanticised view, a cliché. One that never ceases to please.
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