Author: Han NaGil

Something dark. Something sweet. A response to your gentle gesture. It is baked. It is made. I’m not quite sure how I’ll get the treats to you and your home abode. And so, I ask whether you’re free. You answer with a call, and you come. You come and eat, and I have no more food left. Oh, my!

That is all. There isn’t much to tell.

Oh my, my, my, my. I have been all over the city and one of the keys has fallen off. Does this happen? Apparently so. At first, I seek the assistance from the locksmith. But maybe I was too haste. Instead, I climb in through the window. When I get inside, I have to get back outside the same way I came in. The spare key is with someone else, and my keys, wallet and all the things I bought are still outside. I wedge the purchased items through the metal gate. I grab my keys and push through the bathroom window once again. A cut on the hand, and sympathy sought. The call is answered and another magical day awaits the Sunday night.

Some may say the day is wasted. Some may say the day is savored. I prefer the latter after a besotted lock-down for 24 hours. Dinner elsewhere makes me drunk from the inhalation of you.

The dinner is served. The dinner is prepared. The dinner is magical. The entire evening, full of wonder.

I bought some napkins. You taught me to take it slow. To enjoy the little things in life. You’re not supposed to gobble down your food like hamster. Embrace the experience of a simple ice cream shop. You sit down. They take your order before scurrying away. You wait in anticipation. You are served. Every spoonful into your greedy stomach is a piece of art. Full of giggles and pleasure.

The ice cream experience will always remind me to take things slow. Examine the life less imagined. Live the life that is mundane.

I feel like you’re the owner of my house. You take charge. I am not sure what to make of this. I’m not used to the strong force of nature that is you.

A picture is shown and the skeptic starts to melt.

I am ill and you offer to make me a meal. I don’t quite believe you. So full of doubt with broken promises.

Time to catch up on the past seven days. It’s funny. The more I write, the happier I get. Yet, I let the habit lapse. But I’m starting to think it may be impossible to write daily. Especially if my preference is to write in the morning. That’s when my best writing takes place, but also conflicts with the best work done during this time.

And thus, I tap away this evening. Two hours and counting. In between making and drinking herbal tea, I stretch here and there.

The Mambo King plays a Rumba-Afro-Cuban music in the background. Someone is dancing to this upbeat, smiling and laughing as he spins and turns with and around the crowd. He smiles and gyrates his hips, inviting the crowd to join him in on the fun. His footsteps are light and fast. They shuffle to and fro, marking his space with the spin that pushes and pulls you in.

The onlookers can’t help but smile.

I just dreamed this up all in my head. It’s good to write down my imaginations.

I am extremely ill. It started slowly on Saturday, getting a bit worse on Sunday, and on Monday, it hits me like a truck in full velocity. It always does, doesn’t it?

I go in for three 1-1 meetings. Both bosses tell me to go home to rest. So I go home. I sleep in between drinking tea. My entire being is absolutely and totally exhausted.

Who knew?

He eats his ice cream like a magician. A professional. Someone who gets paid to do this. How fun is it to eat ice cream and laugh as if there is no tomorrow. As if we are still school children with no worries but homework?