Autumn treat.

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I sat on a bench in town in today’s late forenoon, a cold, dry forenoon, with papers blowing around my feet and people passing in all their busyness, wrapped up in scarves, collars up round their ears. My wife arrived but wouldn’t sit on the bench because she was cold and the bench, she said, was dirty. And there were pigeons. As arranged we walked through town to a restaurant for lunch. The waitress was French with a lop-sided, short hairstyle, not pretty in a conventional way but attractive and had deftly squeezed herself into a very snug pair of jeans. Calamari. Bloody steak. Panna cotta. A glass of exquisite Merlot, full of the mellowness of autumn and as purple as a bruise. Very nice toilets too.