summer afternoon

It’s the middle of the afternoon, and the sunshine is falling hard against the worn-out pavestones, breaking into shards of brilliant golden white. The air is thick with the heat and the smell of fish, and you can taste salt when you lick your lips. There’s an old man sitting at the terrace of a café, with a cigarette and a cup of coffee. His shirt is unbuttoned and you can see his chest, tanned and smoothed by a lifetime under the glaring sun. His hair is white and neatly combed. His hands are strong and thin. His face is worn and burnt. He’s looking out at the sea. Two boys are running down the waterfront, their footsteps ringing in the silence, the younger one is chasing after the other, who could be his brother; he’s yelling at him, his voice full of excitement, asking him to wait for him. they’re running towards a small park, in front of the church made of red bricks and cracked plaster. A young man is sitting alone, on a bench in the park, under the shade of a plane tree. he stops reading the worn book in his hands to watch the children run by. The pages of the book are yellow and rough, and the letters are small and tightly spaced. The church bell, made of tarnished bronze, rings four times, slow and solemn. Inside the church it is cool and dark, and the smell of must lingers faintly in the air. A woman wearing a white summer dress is kneeling on the cold stone floor, her elbows resting on the pew in front of her, her hands clasped together, her eyes closed, her lips softly parted. She is so close to the alter that the Christ on his cross with his crown of thorns seems to be looking down at her, his eyes full of pity.