The wind blew us away and threw us off a little. We were thrown backwards on the street, along the sea, past all the honking cars and expensive people. We were pushed back into a time, a couple of years ago, when we were regulars here, with our evening affection and our untold stories.

The street stopped in its tracks and the people went away. The words and thoughts from all those years that occurred there came back in a flood and surrounded us. We stood there, a large umbrella above us, reaching out gingerly to watery tales that we once shared. The flood never went away.

The sea was calm and the sky was orange, an unwavering aspect of all my good memories. The objects from back then came riding along around me – a pair of slippers, a blue toy, a paper napkin with my name on it.

After a while, we walked back through the flood. The wind had died down. The people begin to appear from behind corners, walking with determination that suggested that they never went away. They didn’t notice the flood, they moved quickly, their tired faces lacking any emotion.

We had dinner and left, talking and laughing. It was then that I realized that the flood was gone. It will be back though, swelling with freshly made memories.