It's Sunday - quiet, peaceful, still. Sound of crisp, curled leaves skipping across the balcony. A light wind. Rain. Rain pouring down the windows on both sides of our living room making it feel like a car wash. It's stopped now. Amri's light snoring has given way to the gentle rustle of the broadsheet newspaper he's reading across the table from me.
"Why don't you write at the computer?" he asks. " I don't want to. I prefer to write here," I say, looking up from the white paper of my open notebook.
Sunday morning. Not the right time to turn on the computer. I don't want to be disturbed by the ping as it goes on, by the bright icons and barely discernible flicker, by all that electronic wizardry linking me to the world Out There.
Just want to be quiet, cocooned in our little flat under a grey blanket of sky.
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