Joining Dots.

From where I sit....

Men in white shirts and blue aprons setting chairs on the terrace of The Vigne en Foule.

An old man in a tweed jacket, wearing sunglasses, hands clasped behind his back, shuffling past – he is probably wearing slippers.

A house in half shadow half sun, nine of its shutters shut, so one that is, therefore, today an opener.

A trade van heading east, a trade van heading west – not the same.

A lady with a red scarf around her neck, crossing the road to the square.

The square, waiting for the workers to continue the repaving, the laying of new bricks, the polishing of keystones.

No workers.

A motorbike parked in the middle, where it should not.

No rider.

Green plastic chairs stacked in fives, four abreast, against upturned tables.

Downturned tables, some empty.

Three not.

Two ladies, coffee held in double hands, talking listening, listening talking.

One younger woman alone, coffee on table, she takes sugar, she’s reading a report, here sunglasses are on her head, not her eyes.

Her eyes are not blue.

A man walking past, no slippers.

He stops, he has met someone he knows.

The motorbike driving off, it found a rider.

A cyclist, female.

The two ladies, finish, stand, part, one heads west, the other enters this café where I sit.

Watching the street.

And the road.

And the square.

I can hear the workmen, I can’t see them.

The third table?

Me?

No, I am inside, in the corner by the window.

On the other side of the window, a man’s back.

The man too.

He’s doing the crossword, smoking a pipe.

He looks English, I should know. It's cryptic.

A workman has appeared, filling a wheelbarrow with cement.

The woman reading a report has lit a cigarette, the smoke drifts in gentle breeze and sunshine, towards the man with the pipe, in the west.

The windows.

Three.

The open door, the sky is blue.

A man enters, the lady leaves.

This table.

An orange juice.

This page.

My fingers.

Me.