Sitting in a café in the shifting sunlight.

May.

Someone has let loose a bag of potato chips on the street and as the tram shuttles by, chips fly into the air catching the light. This I can see from the café where I have escaped the wind, which does a satisfactory job drying the laundry, but wreaks havoc on my ballerina bun. In the café, a child in a red coat babbles in Dutch to a group of people who look like me, but speak a different language, presumably Dutch. She is the only child in the group, the only child in the café. The adults alternate between giving her their complete attention and forgetting her presence. Now, bored, she ambles behind the bar to chatter at the bartender in her gibberish. He offers her Chocomel. I sit in a shifting patch of sunlight drinking rosé, which makes me think of Hal and Kate and dining al fresco in Spain. I think of how Kate would love the sight of the chips flying through the air. I imagine her pale eyes brightening at the sight and a micro smile melting across her face. Then I realize that they are not chips at all, but petals fallen from a tree I cannot name. It is a common tree that blooms everywhere, but I can’t tell you what it is because I was horrible at that leaf project that Mr. King made us do in 7th grade biology.

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