By Rama Nicholas

Mustard was the colour of the blue-eyed woman’s dress. A dazzling beacon amongst hard grey suits and sharp patent leather heals of passers by.

The sun seemed to time its own arrival just as she stepped on to the section of pavement it illuminated, as if on cue, lights, camera, action. A man on the other side of the road was a solitary witness to this dramatic natural occurrence – woman, sun, dress. It made his chest fill for just a moment, what a surprise, so many monotonous years – so many laptop computer screen documents edited, reread, emailed, returned and emailed again – had passed since his chest had been filled like this. Warmed like the sun but not by the sun.

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