The Younger Self

Edinburgh was having one of these divine days that are so bright and breezy that they make you want to move there right away, meet a Scotsman, melt in his strong arms and leave behind your ordinary existence. 

I was sitting cross-legged in the restaurant of the Gleneagles, furiously writing away.

I was dressed in my shawl collar cardigan, tank top, cropped trousers and pointed ballerinas—my glasses were at the tip of my nose, as I had started becoming as blind as a bat a few years prior. 

I was—if I may say so myself—a portrait of elegance, focus and calm. One might even have said that I was regal in my chic hotel with my chic glasses. My make-up wasn’t even smeared yet, which would happen before long. 

I can only stay regal for about an hour and a half until my hair starts frizzing and my T-zone starts shining.

—

She was late and I didn’t mind it at all, for I am decidedly very happy in my own company. 

She kept texting me updates and I kept protesting. “Don’t apologize, we can reschedule i…