Originally written sometime in late 2021

The laces of your pink trainers swayed as you swung on the creaky old swing. They danced in freedom as your shoes dangled from the pivot of your toes. White socks crept up your feet and hugged your ankles while the afternoon drizzle made your blue mackintosh gleam in the faint sunlight. Spring toyed with you. A gentle breeze made an effort to plaster a tuft of soggy hair across your left cheek but you took no notice of its flirtatious advances and instead fixed your eyes at me. I lay sprawled on the grass underneath the gnarled ash tree. Its grand foliage overshadowed our spot and claimed its dominance. But it was peaceful. Throughout. The solitary swing where you were sat, a few yards away from me, issued signs of happiness as you went to and fro. Its chains squeaked when you gained momentum. An expression of relief from its forlorn days of disuse. Few kids ever sullied the place as often as we did. In fact, none did at all. The cemetery behind the grove of ash trees was perhaps what played the deterrent. "Sarah." You hear me call out in a low voice. "My watch isn't water-resistant." You looked down at a watch which seemed out of place in your dainty wrists. "There's barely a droplet." You replied reassuringly. "Well, what's the time?" "A quarter to six." "I should be leaving soon." I said, my voice brimming with lethargy. "I've got homework." "You've always got homework." "That's true." I reply, solemnly. "Well, so do I." Partially overcast skies made you hum. Hum songs that would often linger in my mind for the remainder of the day. As the gust of wind died, I registered a quiet refrain of _Champagne Supernova_. Your mellifluous tune triggered a memory in me. "Sarah" "Yes?" "Uh..." I started out hesitantly. "How many special people change?" I asked, half-wishing it wasn't a valid question. After a brief moment of thought, you replied with an earnest look. "None." You were now swinging at a stronger pace. "Special people don't change. They never lose what makes them special to you. Their..._je ne sais quoi_. The ones who change were simply never special. They're masquerades." A deliberate silence helped soak in what you said. "But how can you tell between a masquerade and someone who's not?" I asked. You shrugged. "You just...know." You leapt off the swing, landing softly on your nimble feet and proceeded to perform a pirouette. "It's amazing how you do that." My eyes sparkled in wonder. You nodded with a smile. Brushing the leaves aside, you flopped down next to me and pressed your face with both hands. From the corner of your eye, I caught you surveying the bite wound on my left arm, which was perpetrated by none other than your unusually hostile tabby cat. "It still hurts, if you're wondering." "I'm sorry. He has a hard time socializing." You said, pitifully. A jetliner streaked above our heads and pierced a hole through a cloud, leaving a trail of cigar puffs in its wake. "English clouds are different." I said when you turned towards me, your right cheek squashed against a soft blade of grass. "They're different from the ones back home." I stated. "How different?" "For a start, our clouds more often than not, resemble human figures and personalities whereas the ones here look more like...Pokémon." You burst out laughing, much to my unamused pause. "You could argue that the shapes adjust themselves to conform with the imagination of the observer, but that's not quite true. Cloud shapes are not subjective." "They very well are." You defied. "No, they're not. However, they can be interpreted in several ways. For instance, that lone cumulus you see towards the west" I pointed my finger over the chestnut tree in the distance. "does look like your rogue feline or a Meowth, but if you take a good hard look, it appears to look more like our economics teacher on Monday mornings." You shook your head in amusement. "Both are pretty good biters, I must say." You said, grinning. "That's the thing with your clouds." I continued, having yet to prove my point. "They offer flexibility. They morph quickly. But I'm afraid, I like the invariability of our clouds. Back home, you can tell a story by connecting cloud nurseries because each cloud has a unique shape. They don't change under standard weather conditions." I further elucidated how English rain clouds have a milder appearance in contrast to the ones I'm familiar with. "Firstly," you sat up, dishevelling your hair further. "Cloud shapes are purely subjective. You can picture anyone you want to if you keep peering at them for a while. And secondly, I wouldn't like a creepy face staring down at me. And neither do I want to see unicorns or hippos. I just wanna see clouds." The drizzle had ceased by then and the clouds, which had grown awfully tired of our chatter, began drifting away. "Face me." I said after a falling leaf pricked me out of my reverie and directed my attention towards you, reading a magazine. “What?" "Face me." "Why?" You said, narrowing your eyes in bewilderment. “Have you watched this film, I Origins?" I tried hard to conceal a smile. "I don't reckon I have." My eyes bored into two pearls which bore right back at mine. "Why are you staring at me like that?" You spoke slowly, failing to comprehend the atmosphere. "You have not?" "No. That's the first I've heard of it, actually." "You have a gorgeous pair of eyes, Sarah." You shoved your mackintosh, which was lying between us, straight at my face. "Stop fawning over my eyes for Lord's sake." I could tell the pitch of your voice reach the zone of irritability as I broke contact and closed my eyes shut. "So, what's it about?" You asked a minute after. "What's what about?" "The movie you mentioned." "Oh, that. It's about eyes." "Just eyes?" "Just eyes." I answered. "They're a marvelous work of creation. And yours, even more so." You shot me a disapproving glare and looked away. Splitting open the magazine and covering your face with it, I heard you say, "I think we should visit this place more often."

When I visited Durham on Interpals

Apprendre les langues

Mon français après cinq mois

Slowly dying in concerts

गांजा

Apiculture, Science Fairs and College Degrees

People I met past bedtime