lost for words

The road behind me is a torrent of traffic, glinting like giant fish in the relentless sun. The roar is oppressive, the conversations of the people in the half empty terrace are drowning. My bottle of alcohol free beer warms next to a small bowl of mixed olives, dehydrating slowly. At the table in front of me, an old couple, perhaps in their eighties, are sitting together in silence, sharing a plate of Spanish ham. Their clothes betray a youth spent in a time where people spoke politely to each other. Where people read newspapers and listened to the radio.

declining sun -
we all run out of
things to say