Sitting at a new café is how I've been spending my Sundays. I’m not sure where I am, somewhere in the 5th arrondissement. The old man next to me is smoking a cigarette. The wind is blowing the stench of his nasty tobacco stick in my face. I’m trying to be like the French and not mind, but I do. He is so aged, I'm convinced this cigarette could be one of his last. I suppose I shall let him enjoy it. Nope- he's lit another. I imagine he came out of the womb smoking cigarettes and has continued smoking them for the past one hundred years. His hands shake as he puffs his Marlboro, but his body remains slouched and comfortable. Wearing dark sunglasses that take up his entire face and a suit that appears older than he is, I wonder what he is thinking. He tilts his head towards my computer screen. I fear he can read what I am writing. I know he can’t.
He pushes the tiny cafe table away and shuffles his large body from his chair. Squeezing through the small space between the tables, he's knocking stuff over like a walrus in an antique shop. He doesn't mind.
His seat is taken by not one, but two cigarette smokers. The table opposite of me is smoking too. Are my lungs drowning in second hand smoke? No- Come on girl, you are in France. You can handle it. But oh my god, this could be the smokers lounge at JFK.
Well, the waiter just brought me my cappuccino. It has whip cream on top. For 4 euros and 60 cents, it better.
I’m off to enjoy. Cough.
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