I told you that I don’t drink. But you said that no one would be able to resist your particular whisky brand. You insisted. I didn’t want to offend you but I was intimidated by the thought of starting my late bloomer drinking with whisky. Isn’t that like jumping in the deep end?
For almost 30 years, you’d lived in a country that shares its border with mine. Then you’d returned to England but, cliche as it may be, your soul had remained in your adopted country.
You were thrilled to be meeting someone who understood the language that you spoke for years but didn’t have much use for now.
The pleasure was mine, though. For you told me of things I had only read in our region’s history books, but you’d lived and worked through.
It’s been years now, and I don’t even know if you still live on that posh London street where we met.
But in the end, my only regret was that I was too stuck in my ways to taste the whisky that you were so proud of.
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We Spoke Yesterday 