following my illegal activities on Kos, I wandered around the Plaka in Athens before catching my flight home.
I passed a Greek Priest in street vestments. He had a kind face and we exchanged smiles. I turned into a music store and exited a short while later to find him waiting for me. He asked me, in Greek, if I would buy him an orange juice.
I understood him perfectly (I had been studying modern Greek) but I pretended I did not, mostly because I didn't understand why a kind Greek priest would ask me to buy him an orange juice. And it frightened me.
I shook my head and continued on. He looked sad and mystified.
His memory will sometimes materialize for no good reason; a regret that nags at me like his unslaked thirst.