Fragments

I remember one night in London in the middle of summer. The heat had been building over a week or two to the point of bursting. London heat is a little tense and gritty. A stillness was filling the evening. The colours in the garden vivid and crisp, the smell of dirty lilac persistent as we ate greasy roast chicken from the rotisserie outside the blue mosque. I remember lying naked on my bed that night, sash window wide open, very little between me and the outside. I didn't sleep until the heat began to drop only to be woken a couple of hours later by what sounded like hot, golden oil sizzling fast. Between sleeping and waking, the air cooled and started stirring, stroking my skin and as the heat broke the sound of hot oil turned into to raindrops falling on leaves I turned from a leaf soaking up raindrops back into myself.