The Invitation

 

That still summer night the street-lights were shining white through the lower branches of the trees, making – as we walked below – a shifting fretwork of black leaves. I unexpectedly got invited into a household that had the look of, if not servants, a coming-in cleaner. Despite the vase of yellow and orange flowers precisely centred on the low table’s lustre, I reassured myself that come morning my very keen host would have stale cheese breath. Small comfort. Wherever I went, bathroom to bed, I remained untidily out of place.

 

 

.

Sam Smith

 

 

.

 

 

This entry was posted on in homepage and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.