AlexanderPaupoff

That warm, dreary summer, my days were spent at the window-side table of a tiny café overlooking the main street. In the afternoons, the sun insisted on reflecting off every surface so that the world seemed enveloped in a dull, white haze. I often neglected the cooling cup of coffee before me to watch out the window, lulled by the low thrum of a vague, expressionless multitude. It was among them that I first saw her. She appeared to me, in every aspect, most unremarkable, standing there at the top of the stairs to the underground metro, adjusting her cap. And I had turned away almost immediately, distracted by the incessant cooing of the little pigeon sheltered in the striped awning. I cannot say for sure if it was her I saw again across the street a few days later. It was late on a surprisingly breezy evening, and it had begun to drizzle while we waited amidst fidgety crowds for the traffic to come to a halt. She stood there: her face tilted upwards, her expression intent as she