Each evening, coming home, he would read 'L'idéale', the name plate fixed to his garden gate. Sometimes, he'd reach up and touch the letters which were slightly raised underneath the blue enamel and, so doing, would oftentimes be swept by a wave of nostalgia that could cause him, literally, to sway.
How he loved that style of writing, characteristic of a certain epoch when beauty was ever the ideal. He traced the letters with his finger: yes, it was really the perfect name: three short syllables that linked this house, this particular place and his own thought processes in a single conception of excellence.
He knew that to achieve the ideal was almost hopeless, that seeing the words written down like this might even bring a smile to the lips, but still he was prepared to take the risk. He had always imagined this particular name written on his garden gate, and in a world of give and take, this was one particular ideal that he was not prepared to compromise.
Whistling loudly to himself as the gate clanged shut behind him, he crunched up the gravel path, running his hand over the smartly clipped privet. What was for dinner tonight, he wondered. Absolute perfection would be sausage and chips, but he didn't want to get his hopes up too high.
3 comments:
Beautiful wriitng.
The sausage and chips twist made me smile!
Thank you both.
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