"What are you doing out here in the cold?" asked the young man smilingly, whose skin was tanned, so that I could not immediately determine his native country. We have passed by him and his dog, as we drove a dirt path by the farmland.
"This place is really nice," I replied, "and is that your house?" There was a cottage where the path ended with two cars in the yard.
"Yes it is," he replied.
"Nice cottage," I said. Already I was thinking of a Macbook atop a wooden desk, coffee steaming from the mug, on the side and me looking out through the french window, wondering at the frosted trees, thinking of the next sentence to type in a new story. Yep, that would be the scenario I could easily find myself in. What other ambition would I need other than to sit down quietly in the morning and write a new book?
"I am Ian," he said, as he extended his hand. I took it and replied, "Kamarul. Nice cottage you have here."
"Thank you," he said.
"And your dog?"
"This is Mack," Ian replied, "nice to meet you." And with that, he and Mack strolled back to his house.