Sitting at his solitary table, Mel was thinking about the other day, an October afternoon: he was out, sitting at the same solitary table, on the sidewalk, on one of those ristorante metal chairs, with intricate swirls and spirals on the back. He was looking at the empty street. The setting sun was shining on him. The light was getting in his eyes. He took a sip from his espresso. And as he looked back up, he had a strange feeling that he was distancing from his seat, from his cup of coffee. He could see himself seated at the table, and at the same time he was moving forward, against the light, along the cobbled narrow street. He passed by another table, and another, and as he looked over his right shoulder and saw an old figure seated at the furthest table. His hair was white, and so was his moustache. But at the same time, he had the feeling that he was still sitting at the table, watching a young familiar figure pass by his table, and then pass by the next table, and the next, along the cobbled narrow street, towards the setting sun. The figure was rimmed with white light. The figure reminded him of someone. Mel could not put his finger on it. He just looked at the young figure. The young man looked shortly over his right shoulder, shrugged and as he turned his head forward, he caught a glimpse of himself in the nearby window. He was startled for a moment, yet he went on, and off he disappeared into the shadows ahead. Mel was sitting at his solitary table, on the sidewalk, with the setting sun shining on him, and the light getting into his tearful eyes.
October 27th, 2021
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