Mountains of paper and round the clock documentation, a task so onerous that whenever Adrian passed by, I had this urge to wring his neck. I was no prisoner and I could leave, but that small chance, the minute possibility of going back to Kuwait and retrieving the money niggled me from the back of the mind. Some where in Feb, I broke it to Adrian, on a night when he was reading aloud a poem He read it so well, poetry was his passion and recited it in undertone and connotation, that you enjoyed the poem in it’s depth. It was Robert Frost , The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

He was reading the poem again at my insistence and was to read another when I interrupted him ,surprising him and he slammed the book shut and glared at me.

What?.....what,what, what?.