The mango grove

Like friendly monsters waving their tentacles, the plants outside the coffee shop saluted me in the breeze. It was afternoon and the sun was throwing kaleidoscope shadows in that tree-ridden street. Tuesday.

The cushion sighed as I sat, and I ordered for tea.

There were baubles and mistletoes hanging limply, mourning the death of Christmas while Jim Morrison sang the eulogy from the speakers.

My tea arrived and tantalised me with the reflection of the asbestos and the crotons above it. How wonderful would it be if we could just reach in through the tea and carress the world beyond it? 'Through the Earl Grey' - I would call it.

The next song brought images of an earlier America - with metal diners and grumpy men and weathered hats and sweaty armpits. And intelligent waitresses and passionate adultery.

Why is it that all my recurring images are from a place and time I have never been to? The neon signs and the falling snow and the smoky cigarette form another image.

I was surprised by the creeping sunlight. There I was in the midwest evening and then there I was in the deccan afternoon. Shit! There I am!