This is a story of how a boy lost the girl.
From the bedroom came the raw sound of strumming. In the heavy summer heat, the songs just spiraled and hung round like echoes or ripples on a pond. He sat loosely in a rattan rocking chair at the window of his fairly sizable room, a room meant for two. The strumming was methodical and strong. Plastered on the walls were photo frames, some empty but most of faded photos from their trip to Italy in the 80's. He never sang to his strumming. Beside him, a typewriter was gathering dust while a sketchbook lay open to an amateur sketch of the outside view. Strewn across the desk beside him there were pages ripped out from notebooks and as on every table in the flat, an ashtray lay. Two freshly smoked cigarettes stubbed out inside. He never rocked in the chair, but merely sat there, strumming. The smell of brewed coffee gave the dismal interior of the room an intimate feel. The strumming stopped. With calloused hands he fiddled with a cigarette pack for a while until eventually he set it back on the table. Putting his fingers to the side of his head, he rubbed meticulously at his temples. As he did this he let the summer air fill his lungs and his eyes glaze over. His face was carved and swarming with wrinkles, which did not in the slightest reflect his age. Swiveling round 90 degrees he turned to face his desk from his position by the window and propped his elbows on the table. In seconds his eyes were fixed on the large wall hanging facing him. She had bought it for him in London last winter. Big block letters spelt out "WAR IS OVER" in Indian ink, underneath this were the perfectly painted faces of John and Yoko smiling knowingly. It was the same winter that he had lost her; it was the same winter when he found her. The strumming began again.
