The café has a large window looking on to the street. A man at a booth is waving his arms dramatically to a woman who is invisible at this angle. One wants to go in and rescue her but in all likelihood it is another man who is in agreement with the gesticulator and would not look favorably on our interruption. We pass beneath mortar and brick opposite, as pigeons swirl through the cold looking for morsels, we have an urge to go in and stop the man’s talking. The world pushes urgently with its hands. The man has a thin moustache and oily skin. He is old and turning to dust as we pass, moving on to silence.