Flying Umbrellas

There was I noticed a man standing by the bar. On the floor, resting against his bare knee, was a battered old attaché case. The reason I noticed this I guess – it was so old and battered - so obviously out of fashion. Just like his summer shorts. The effect it had on me was comic.

The man – in keeping with his comic role – was drinking a freshly squeezed orange juice from a straw. As he sucked up the juice, he scanned the room; our eyes met briefly.

On finishing his juice, the man turned to the barman and ordered an espresso.

When you ground the coffee, I heard, don’t ground it too much, it’s no good if it’s fine.

A few seconds passed, and I could feel his eyes on me again. Somehow I resisted the temptation to look round and see if there was someone behind me. At the back of me, after all, was only a poster on the wall – of Rene Magritte’s flying umbrellas! I knew that because I sat there at the same table almost every day. Drinking my cappuccino.