Fiction

It’s that part of the late afternoon where the sun has dipped below the horizon but it’s not dusk yet. I walk out of the air-conditioned sanctuary of my house, and step onto the porch. The now weakened humidity of the mid-September breeze envelopes me. I love Indian summer. My bare feet relish the feel of the unvarnished, and uneven wood below. The road is full of dust. The sky is baby blue, and gradients all the way to pink as it approaches the rooftops of my neighbours’ houses. The lawns are freshly mowed. A few disconnected shouts of children playing echo through the otherwise calm street. I close the door behind me, and drink my beer.