He walked down the lane whistling a hymn to himself. It was November and cold, but there was no snow. Not yet. He approached it as another routine day in a long march of routine days. Distracted by the mental checklist of things that he needed to do, his body took him towards his destination. He greeted familiar and unfamiliar faces in the street with a smile.
He crossed the cobblestone alley, turned the corner, and found he had arrived at his destination. A croissant, he decided. This morning, nothing would be better than a hot, fluffy croissant with his tea. He went to the weathered door — once painted an earthy green but now faded and flaking — and pushed. Quite unexpectedly, the door did not open; he jerked to a stop abruptly just before he hit his face on the unyielding obstacle.
He stepped back, looked at the offending doorway. Then, he looked at his watch. “Millie must be running late today,” he said to himself.
He sat on the foundation ledge near the door of the bakery. Some children went running past, chasing each other, squealing, having fun. He felt something brush against his pant leg and looked down. A little kitten looked up at him shyly.
“What’s your name, little fellow?” he asked the kitten, bending down and scooping him up. It purred contentedly as the man stroked its head. “I bet you’re waiting for Millie too, aren’t you?”
Copyright © 2014 Eric Schweitz
Photo linked via The Heart of Writing