The monsoon season is upon us, and all it has done this week has been rain, rain and rain.
It rained on Saturday, and then on Sunday, and then on Monday, Tuesday, all through to Friday... and it will probably continue to rain this weekend. The sky turns dark by six and sometimes the rain slows down to a light drizzle in the evening and one can almost smell autumn in the air.
There is a certain air of romantic melancholy about the rain, and there is nothing more wonderful than being dry and warm indoors, with jazz on the speakers and snuggling with a special someone.
Tonight we took a late-night walk around his neighbourhood with no destination in particular, hoping for an interesting restaurant to present itself, and he decided that we should hop on the bus and see what it takes us.
As the bus approached the streets of Chinatown, we noticed a lane of small eateries and just as suddenly decided to hop off. He was in the mood for pasta, I was in the mood for a glass of wine.
We went into a charming little Italian place run by a Japanese old man and as with most restaurants on Friday nights it was filled with the after-work crowd. We shared a carafe of white wine, a pizza, a pasta and a tiramisu.
The menu wasn't extensive and the food took a while to come since they were all prepared in individual portions, but the ambience was homely and we kept ourselves entertained with conversations about art, museums and the like. I think we could have sat there all night talking with the food and drinks served in well-timed intervals.
On nights like these I wish my life could stay this way forever, but then I remember the dreams I have for my future, the dreams that are entirely possible if I put my mind to it. It might take me a while to get there, but the most important thing now is that it is carved out.