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Making hummous: the
satisfactory blubbing sound of the putty-coloured mixture that is just the right
texture, not too sloppy, not too dry.
One of the things I
like most about our bedroom is the reflection of tree branches on the back wall.
The shadow leaves sway and dance on the yellow surface.
I envy people who have
canopies of wisteria in their gardens – the soft old-lady violet colour is just
beginning to appear around town now, and then in a flash it will fade and wilt
before the second, weaker blossoming.
It’s Sunday lunchtime,
I cycle down a street with multiple bars where men throng outside in muted joy.
They shout-speak to each other in Spanish and Portuguese.
At the market in
Saint-Michel an old man on a bench in conversation with a similar old man. They
are both wearing all-over grey. The first man holds a vertical forefinger in front of
his lips and the conversation seems to take a confidential turn. The finger looks
as if it has seen service on building sites.
That moment at airport
arrivals when you catch sight of a face
that you know by heart but have not seen in several months. In a split second
you drink in those beloved features and register the slight changes that have
come about.
