Filling the void

For some reason we were angry with each other, not very but enough to separate us. You wrote in your diary and I painted the plants I had found, more for something to do than from desire. It was raining and the usual crowd sat under the covered terrace drinking their chai's and exchanging travel stories. It was both comforting and alienating for me, a kind of unreal no man's land, and the continual falling rain depressed me as wet Sundays had depressed me in England.