street, I join the back of the queue for the food van.
Eventually, I get to the front. I gesture with both my hands and repeat my question ‘Why do you do this to me, every Sunday?’
The man in the van leans forward resting on his forearms and with his hands clenched together in front of him.
I stare him down. ‘Every Sunday it’s the same, you come here park your van right under my window...’
‘...You’re making me fat!’
A grin appears on his face. ‘I am just a purveyor of fine street food, it’s your problem that you have no willpower! What can I get you?’
I sigh, then utter, ‘the usual.’
‘Twelve dollars.’
‘I’m your best customer any chance of a discount?’
‘Next week...’
‘You’ll be here next week? It’s Easter Sunday.’
‘Yeah, my prices will be double but with your discount, it’ll come out even.’
‘You’re a great salesman Julio, I don’t care what everyone else says about you!’
Ten minutes later and I’m back in my apartment with my food, I tip it out on to a plate, grab a fork and make my way back to the computer; I need to meet an important deadline before the Easter break and I’ve been procrastinating all morning and most of the afternoon. Now with a renewed sense of urgency, I power up the computer and open my emails.
One email immediately catches my attention, it sits second to the top of my inbox with ‘Meet me...?’ in the subject line.
The sender's email address, a mix of letters and numbers certainly didn’t give any clues. Spam maybe? With one click, it appears in the preview panel, the two letters in the opening line immediately told me it wasn’t spam.
The email starts with my initials “JJ” which at some point in my past life had become my nickname, but only to one person, and she was the last person I thought I would hear from.
Sure enough, the email was signed off by Jill the only person who had ever called me JJ.
The shock of hearing from her stuns me, I’m thrown back in an instant to our childhood together right up to the night she was taken, in her sleep, to a waiting car and driven away.
For the first time in my life I don’t know how to react. Reaching forward I pick up my now, lukewarm mug of coffee. Three gulps and it was gone. Still clutching the empty mug, I tap it against my bottom lip as I stare out of the window once more entering an almost trance-like state.
An aircraft skims the rooftops on its final approach for landing at Newark International, the late afternoon sun reflecting off the polished aluminium body dazzles my eyes. The wake turbulence that follows it briefly creates a breeze that permeates the air through the open window, a breeze tainted with the heady smell of kerosene fumes from its engines.
I turn myself around so my back is to the computer. As I do, I catch a faint reflection of myself in the glass door on the other side of the room. There I was, me and the ghost of my former self staring at one another in a reflective stand-off.
My heart is thumping in my chest; I stand up. Eventually, after what seemed a lifetime, I manage to refocus. I had to respond; that email demanded attention and was clawing its way into my conscience with every minute that passes. I sit back in my chair, spinning round to face the computer once more.
The screen saver maniacally fills the screen, the hard drive is clicking and tapping almost as if it were mimicking my very own thought processes.
My head falls back almost as if it is too heavy for my neck to support and I close my eyes again. I have changed immeasurably over the last four years, I’ve become considerably more self-assured and confident, but that email from Jill has shaken me to the core.
Suddenly, I feel panicked into a decision. I sit bolt upright, almost like I had been shaken out of a bad dream. I move the mouse and bring the computer back to life.
I have made my decision; I need to go back.
But, how to reply? In the next two hours I must have created and deleted nine emails, in the end I decided to go with concise; I tell her I will book a flight for Wednesday the 19th so I’ll be back home in time for the Easter break. My flight will arrive in Manchester at