It's another one of those golden days, the dead leaves layer the pavements, the sun colours us red.


I arrive at a  café and sit far from the crowds of grey coats and black shoes scattered in the light. I order a glass of red wine, in a modest attempt at maturity


He arrives a while later and greets me with a kiss; his beard unshaved, a cashmere scarf warming his throat and the same old grey to match the cafe. But his eyes are bright and as eager as a child.


We sit side by side as he pages through his photographs: a mountain, an arid landscape, the Megalia waters, and some odd flag on top of a Tibetan monastery.


I ask him how he mastered the light, he says, “I've been doing this for twenty years now.” Sometimes I forget he is twenty years my senior.


Twenty years from now I thought, I'm likely to be grey though I wish for my eyes to burn just as bright such that a young man in his prime may weep in my absence.


In his attempt to leave, I ask that he stay a while longer. The request seems only to aggravate him. “Must I leave Celine waiting pregnant alone in the cold?!”


I hadn't noticed it was cold. Amidst the haste of the afternoon traffic, the overworked and much too impatient waiter, his eyes burning. I must have failed to notice it was cold.


I ought to leave, but when I get home I'll probably make a sandwich and take a walk with my mother. We'll stroll along Avenue Kleber and up to Victor Hugo, then marvel at old furniture and criticize the poorly dressed mannequins.


On a good night, we might be drawn by scent of baked bread from the bakery across the road and indulge in a pastry or two.


And if a gust of wind is to pass us by, she would remind me to cover my chest. Then we'd go home and drink some tea till our eyes grow heavy with sleep.


So I think I might stay a little longer...perhaps I'll finish my wine.