I miss London.
I miss the street where we lived when Mr. B. and I were on holidays there. There was a store in the corner that never opened for the duration of our stay. I think it was a small neighborhood grocery. Across the street there was an Indian restaurant that never seemed to have any diners. We did see a few but they looked more like friends of the owner. They probably ate for free.
A posh family lives in the flat next to us. We like watching them prepare meals for guests while Mr. B. smoked on the steps outside. I watched the husband stuffed the car with luggage and took his wife and two children on holidays. Perhaps somewhere not as cold. Then there was this fashion designer who has a shop in the corner. Her shop was all black and we never saw anyone going in and coming out of it.
Mr. B. would take me on his back and walk around the block sometimes. The street was almost always wet and covered with leaves from the bald trees. I remember the air being really cold and painful to the nostrils. I was glad I had furs, but Mr. B. had to cover himself up really well.
I wish I can go back again. But maybe it is best to have those beautiful memories stay perfect. Sometimes, Mr. B. and I would watch the photos and video we made from our trip. Then we would hug each other tight. No one else would ever know what it meant for us.