busker

OVID

Sunshine blazing outside but here in my cubicle the aircon is perfect. I lean back and close my eyes: a grecian breeze flows over my cheek. I could be in Nissaki. When I open them again, I persuade myself, there will be a carafe of krassi hima and one of Agathi's salads.

Where is my crack'd volume of Ovid?

Where is the bowl of olives and poolside backgammon set? At the next footstep, if I sit up straight and turn slowly, will it be my father emerging for our evening tourney?