A typically boring and hot Sunday afternoon: there I was, sitting beside the window with a lit menthol cigarette in one hand and a tumbler of iced coffee in the other, staring blankly at a wall awkwardly positioned beside our house, insipidly glaring back as if telling me to get a life and do something more worthwhile than beholding his holy humdrumness. How I wish I could Mr. Wall, for a flat-broke idler like me has got nothing better to do.
That's when I felt her presence.
I then remembered that it is inevitable to meet her during this time of the year. I would imagine her in her usual airy floral dress, sporting a straw hat and a pair of lightweight sandals. Her complexion ever flawless, so radiant that it renders her practically shadowless. She smells like the warm ocean breeze-- the gentle scent of the sea wafted to a garden filled with jasmines in full bloom, then to my nose... oh, how nostalgic.
My eyes, still fixed at the equally bored wall, finally gave out and motioned to the dying stick of poison twiddled by my fingers. A dream sequence played inside my head, and suddenly I was cast to the theater of my childhood memories again. I've been trying so hard to decipher what my id wants my ego to realize, but a single recurring scene haunts me in all of my afternoon reveries: me as a little boy, squatting, back leaning on a faded concrete wall that keeps me away from the sun, snacking on a slice of shabbily-made pizza. Weirdly enough, I always wondered what's with the wall and the sun that they always evoke a sinking feeling when I see them together.
Summer has always been my childhood sweetheart.
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