She looked into the mysterious cold waters of the loch. The loch reflected her imperfect features. Her imperfect features converged momentarily as she frowned and bent closer to the water and splashed it with her hand, which formed ripples. The ripples moved away from the source, then they got lost as the grey clouds broke loose, drops of rain fell on her face as she looked up at the wet skies.
The wet skies harden, the cold wind stings her, and her gloveless hands feel numb. Her eyes wander about. Fir and pine trees consume her vision, but she manages to spot a tiny tea-stall at the foothill, with smoke willowing out of a narrow chimney. She touches the wooden outer-wall of the stall, walks towards the counter which is stacked with bell-jars of butter-biscuits and dark chocolate. “Masala Chai or plain?” the dark man asks, she notices his bright pink monkey-cap and orange colored muffler. “Malasa,” she says and walks towards the bench. After brushing crumbs off the wobbly bench with a newspaper, she sits on it. While placing the newspaper back on the table, she notices the blue plastic sun-shade above her head, which stretches from the stall’s counter outwards, to shelter three benches and two tables. The monkey capped man hands her a glass of piping hot tea. As she holds the warm glass between her hands, she breathes heavily, watching the steam rise slowly.
She stood up and let herself get drenched in the cold drops. The cold drops seeped through her clothes and she shivered. Shivering, she held her cold hand out, as her eyes wandered. Her wandering eyes caught his, “There you are,” he said, came towards her and took her hand in his.