This might sound dramatic but time feels like it’s standing still as I wait for Zidane to answer the call. For real. I’m even holding my breath. He’s suddenly in view. Smiling and shirtless. He’s in his favourite chair, the red leather one, on his MacBook. He’s smoking a spliff.
“Oh my God. Zidane.”
“You’re back,” he says, his eyes smiling as wide as his mouth.
He’s really happy to hear from me. I can hear it. I can see it. I can feel it. But no matter how happy he is, he’d have to multiply it by three to get to my level.
“Zidane…it’s so surreal seeing you. My memory came back thirty minutes ago. I’ve remembered so much it feels like thirty days.”