The sun has fallen behind the hills of salmon and sand-coloured 70s-style block apartment buildings, between which every now and then rots a wooden Ottoman beauty. Summer heat, chased away by the growing shade, waits patiently for another day. Sandalwood, paint and ginger blend into my apartment's very own perfume, and I wonder if I carry the scent on my skin when I leave. Swallows sing as children squeal and shout incomprehensible things; it must be about the football match they are playing with great seriousness in the street below. If I close my eyes, beyond the percussion of little feet, I can hear glass rolling on pavement, the low growl of a motor, the cooing of brown doves. A woman is laughing. A door is slamming, another is creaking open. Earlier this morning, I heard church bells among the gulls, and I thought I was somewhere else.
I want more hours of today. I want the sun to hold its position.
I do not want the children to go in for supper.
