{Mojito}

breakfast mojito

i had never had

a mojito

before but: why not?

i was on my last twenty pounds of which i’d just spent fourteen on breakfast, so 

a cocktail at noon

seemed 

apt…

*

i got to istanbul on my own after christoph and i parted ways back in budapest: he’d had enough and wanted to go home, i

wanted to see

amsterdam.

how i ended up in istanbul i’m not sure, i

suppose

i must have got on the wrong train –

different train: what can be

wrong

about a train that takes you 

where you’ve not been before

*

he’d sent over the waiter. that

in itself

was

brazen

i thought. he looked maybe forty, thirty-eight? forty?

(i later find out he was pushing fifty; i wasn’t meaning to flatter him though)

i went across to his table, and all the while he was looking at me the way your uncle who hasn’t seen you in years looks at you, or a friend of your mum’s who remembers you as a baby: a familiarity that says, you don’t know who i am, but i changed your nappies when you were little.

maybe that’s why i accepted his invitation to

mojito

in the first place: he felt harmless. forlorn, perhaps, and a bit quizzical maybe, but benign

*

i sat down and he said, ‘don’t tell me: it’s george.’ and that made me wonder.

‘isn’t it?’

‘yes.’

‘good to meet you george, my name is sebastian.’

i’d always liked

sebastian

as a name

*

he looked at me with his nearly-a-stare that spoke of

curiosity, even

wonder –

i asked him: ‘what are you doing in

istanbul?’

‘if only i knew,’ he laughed, and there was a silence.

‘how about you?’

*

soon

the waiter

ahmed

arrived

with mojitos


No Compromise >


Read Istanbul in Paperback or as eBook

 

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