Corinne Meghan
Mitglied
The fellow wore long dark-grey trousers and a white shirt beneath a dark blue jumper. Red socks and sandals. He sat outside the bakery. The golden pretzel had neatly been fastened next to the door and served as an eye-catcher for locals and tourists alike.
His dark eyes looked relaxed, as he gazed upon the passers-by. ‘What a lovely day’, he thought as he took a sip of café noir from the round white cup.
He took the silver tea-spoon, and added some sugar to his coffee. He liked everything sweet. Hot chocolate, cup-cakes - and café noir.
It was sunny out, although there was a slight breeze. Spring had finally arrived, the snowdrops came into flower, their petals tingled in the gentle wind.
He liked this town, its cobblestone pavement, the curious towns-people with their soft dialect and the rivulet. A black kitten perched in the sun just by the wall opposite.
His longish hair had turned grey in the course of the years, and when he smiled, laugh lines had become characteristic of his aspect.
Two locals sat down at the little square wooden table next to him, and talked about the last wine harvest in their dialect. They hardly seemed to notice the stranger, until he got up to leave.
The waitress came to fetch the cup. ‘Lovely weather out’, she said to the two locals. ‘If it’s sunny like this in the autumn, we’ll be in for a sweet grape’, one of them retorted. ‘Do you know him?’ he asked, pointing to the fellow as he walked away. ‘No, but he’s probably from France’, she replied, as she placed the cup onto a round black tray and went back inside.
His dark eyes looked relaxed, as he gazed upon the passers-by. ‘What a lovely day’, he thought as he took a sip of café noir from the round white cup.
He took the silver tea-spoon, and added some sugar to his coffee. He liked everything sweet. Hot chocolate, cup-cakes - and café noir.
It was sunny out, although there was a slight breeze. Spring had finally arrived, the snowdrops came into flower, their petals tingled in the gentle wind.
He liked this town, its cobblestone pavement, the curious towns-people with their soft dialect and the rivulet. A black kitten perched in the sun just by the wall opposite.
His longish hair had turned grey in the course of the years, and when he smiled, laugh lines had become characteristic of his aspect.
Two locals sat down at the little square wooden table next to him, and talked about the last wine harvest in their dialect. They hardly seemed to notice the stranger, until he got up to leave.
The waitress came to fetch the cup. ‘Lovely weather out’, she said to the two locals. ‘If it’s sunny like this in the autumn, we’ll be in for a sweet grape’, one of them retorted. ‘Do you know him?’ he asked, pointing to the fellow as he walked away. ‘No, but he’s probably from France’, she replied, as she placed the cup onto a round black tray and went back inside.