books and bricks
Why do I keep getting it wrong?? I think I need to see it myself to finally imprint the name in my diminishing brain:( In my mind, it's a tiny cafe, made of bricks (no surprise there), with Irani chairs and red checked table cloths. It has enough place for 4/5 tables and has an old man who preventatively, so as to avoid him meddling with the house politics, has been sent there by an irate wife to man the billing counter. It plays old Kashmiri songs on a juke box system and is frequented by old souls like yourself. The Guest and PPD will meet there someday, and the Guest will put a few coins in the juke box. The other customers will crinkle up their noses. Mr.Brightside is not what they want to hear. She will order a ginger tea and wait till it becomes luke warm (because that's how she likes her tea) and PPd and her will reminisce the days when they used to take up maths homework (she used to, not him) and now how the kids don't have time to call. Then he will talk about how many times he has to get up to pee, and how silodal isn't doing the trick. She will turn up her hearing aid and smile and wave, when actually she has no clue what he is saying.....
#seeyouwitholdneurons
Aai
PS: technically with the camp, you missed a Sunday. So actually Monday morning blues don't apply. Tomorrow is Tuesday in OBLAND.