Today I saw an old man sitting alone in a cafe. Outside was a sunny, quite hot day, you could say it was perfect. He was sitting, as I’ve already said, alone in the shadow of the cafe, holding a cigarette in his hand, flipping it around his fingers time to time. He was leaning on a table, hands crossed. He was looking in front of himself. Jazz was playing at the back. On the table were lying a coffee, plastic bag with something square shaped inside, a pocket of cigars with a lighter set on them and a couple of other things. He was deep in thought. What could he have been thinking about? Love or a job? A book or a trip? The days that were, are, or even the days that lie ahead of him? Mistakes or possibilities? Maybe he saw a girl who reminded him of his long lost love, or his wife when she was young. Maybe she left him and he is now thinking where did he go wrong, and the moment when she told him that she’s leaving him. Or he could have been thinking about the nights when they were having time of their lives. ”What is his profession?” was one of the questions I asked myself. Maybe he’s a lawyer or a doctor? He is quite chubby and by his features I would say he is a wealthy man. By the way he was dressed I would say that he lives in that neighborhood. Maybe he is a professor on a university? Or an owner of a company? He could be an investor as well. But, maybe he’s non of those things, maybe he is just a retired man from his job as a salesman or a cook? Maybe he was wealthy enough so he didn’t have to do anything? But he spent it all so he was recalling back the old times and thinking what he could have done to prevent that. By the sweatpants he was wearing I would say he is not as wealthy as he was, or he just pulled them out of the closet. They were quite worn out. I’d say he’s 63 years old, retired not long ago as a lawyer or a doctor, you name it. The cafe is dark and wooden. He was sitting in the middle of it, alone in the room. All other guests were sitting outside. Behind him is a gallery with two tables and a bar bellow it. The cafe was open, all of the windows were opened so you have a feeling that you are not in a closed room. He was looking outside, on a small street, pavement where the tables were set and, across the street, at one of the biggest parks in the city, where children were playing and dogs were running. Trees were making a shadow here and there and cars were parked in the small street. He had black shoes on, black sweats with white stripes on sides and a shirt. When I took the last glance of him he was still sitting at the same position, looking at the same spot through his glasses.