The street cafe is already well attended in the morning.
I discover an empty seat, adjust the metal chair, hang my jacket over the backrest and turn in the shade of the large plane tree.
There is an auspicious crunch when I slide the little spoon over the bottom of the fine cup.
There is a colorful paper umbrella in the sundae that the waiter brings me.
I turn the wooden handle between my lips and think that nothing has changed in 30 years.
I'll be dead in thirty years. Or in thirty minutes.
After paying, I go down to the river, sit on the grass and look at the opposite bank. I had always been a good swimmer.
before the operation
a good day
to go fishing
