Saul. Pizza Pino.

Saul sat in his corner of Pizza Pino, sipped contentedly on his rich dark coffee, flicked casually through his copy of Le Monde and watched the hustle and bustle pass him by. A small but delicious pleasure.


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With a little effort he could have worked out how many times he had sat at this table; how many hours, days, weeks - could it even be years he'd tallied up? How many times had he wiped the coffee from his moustache and how many times had he used the back of his hand to do it? Had the moustache been a deep brown bush of bristles when he had first sat here or had it always be this grey? Had the back of his hands always looked so old, boney and flecked with brown or had the first wipe been achieved with smooth white skin?

Saul stretched out his arms and looked at his hands, chuckled and decided that, at eighty five years old, it was a complete waste of his precious time remaining to consider his squandered time past. No, he decided, his precious time remaining should be spent sitting in Pino's, drinking coffee and watching charming, young, female tourists attempt to cross the road.