I was sat at a table in a service station café off the M20, on route to Dover, waiting for Angelika to return with the coffee. The seat beneath me was small, with a round foam cushion and flat metal back. Outside, through the window that stretched the length of the cafe, I could see our campervan parked in the rain. In the dim morning light it appeared grey. We’d been on the road since six, as the sun bled into the sky, and had made good time. We were twenty miles from Dover when the temperature gage hit the red and the warning light came on. Continue reading “Dover by Michael W Smith”
literally stories 