There is something about a black cab with an unseeing driver hissing past on a wet street with its foggy yellow light letting me know that I shouldn’t proceed.
But I arrive at your familiar door, having walked, soaking wet, wondering whose car is on the drive. There’s no light on the porch and yet I still reach for the doorbell, already knowing I shouldn’t.
The smell of summer rain on your newly cut lawn is trying to let me down gently, as I stand on the step while the sound of the chimes echoes down the hall.
But I arrive at your familiar door, having walked, soaking wet, wondering whose car is on the drive. There’s no light on the porch and yet I still reach for the doorbell, already knowing I shouldn’t.
The smell of summer rain on your newly cut lawn is trying to let me down gently, as I stand on the step while the sound of the chimes echoes down the hall.
