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Chai
I sit out to the very last moment. As I walk in with the book and a drink I hear the spots of rain hit the path.
As the rain falls the smells change. I catch the smell of drains, always associated in my mind with Paris and then the smell of dust taking me back to India.
I stand in the kitchen doorway watching the rain bouncing now back up from the path. The wind is cold and the sky low and grey and reluctantly I admit that there can be no more sitting out tonight.
I close the door , make myself a cup of Chai and settle in front of the TV to watch the F Word and hope that tomorrow summer will return.
