A weekend in Warsaw; without you.

A woman steps onto the jagged road ahead of me. From where I sit, at a table thick with sparrows, it seems she has stepped into the path of a slow moving taxi. Perhaps she has somewhere to be.

A troupe of older men, a brotherhood of leathery brown skins and faces lined with laughter, fill the air with their accordions. Their scout dances between tables with a small plastic box. They have one euro.

The square sounds a little like Paris and I imagine they make good enough beer money, but today no one is willing to part with their coins. The music stops as abruptly as it started, and the men disappear.

And then, as if a meandering tourist with a camera slung around his neck, a homeless man wanders past. His hands are crossed loosely on his back, and he peers, only mildly interested, at each cafe as he passes.

His smell lingers long after he is gone, and I wonder at this life in this time.

The chair next to me is empty, and I think of you. The accordions start up down the road, and a sparrow steals a section of my cake. I would have given you the rest anyway.