Today as I sat on the train (I love long train rides when I have something to read) finishing up 'The garden of evening mists' I saw across from me a beautifully peaceful little, curled up on his mother's lap with his head propped against the arm of the woman beside him (a friend of his mother's I gather)
Hi hands encircled a milk bottle slackly and a little stream of milk dribble in trailed down his chin, faun-coloured against his dark brown skin.
After a while, his mother gathered him up as if he were nothing more than a bunch of cloth and held him tighter.
I went back to reading and finished the book of somewhere near Tanjong Pagar.
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