Break

It is too early for our dinner appointment; nobody has arrived yet, the restaurant is half empty while outside the sun is softly declining and the street is still full of the market edible and audio leftovers: fish, rotten vegetables, damaged fruit, seagulls and pigeons that are noisily feasting on the discarded food, while passersby walk slowly and dreamingly, only too happy after the last working day of the week and the joyful prospect of an orangy sunset and sunny week-end. 

Where can I go to kill off time?

Let's push open the door of my favorite café, just around the corner: the light is soft, two big vases compliment tall violet flowers with their heads still up despite the warm day, a few people are sitting leisurely at the tables by the big window and another few at the big wooden table, some with their computers on. Perfect location for a short break before moving on to the planned dinner with friends. Perfect, my body and mind both tell me so and I have learnt to trust them.

With a nice cup of frozen cappuccino and the entertaining book of the moment under my nose, I plunge head first into this solitary moment, reading one page after the other with utter relish. The match between the soft and lenient atmosphere of the ending day and the epistolary novel is soothing, no matter how cruel some of the anecdotes on the German occupation of Guernsey are. I like the characters of this bejewelled book, and I have grown fond of their island, despite their wartime scars: there is so much strength and hope seeping out of their every story and adventure that it can only lift my heart and rapture my interst and fascination. The minutes fly by while in the background I faintly hear the echo of the coffee machine, the blender and the chit chat of the two trendy Amsterdam girls focused on their own storytelling and bits of life. 

A truly peaceful break in fulfilling literary company.