Birds took flight from the tall sycamore tree, and the flapping of their wings could be heard off
in the distance, quieter.

It seemed like a game to her. Although she was already thirteen years old, she played with
children from other tents every day.

Tito and I sit on the little porch of the wooden cabin. As we smoke cigarettes, we move our arms with the most minimal of effort, only to take the bottle of whiskey sitting before us on the floor.

WHAT day is it today? I wonder to myself, looking through the window of the dessert shop at Connaught Place.