It’s cold. For Tel Aviv anyway, if it were this temperature in London right now it would be considered rather warm. The sun is just beaming its last for the day as it sinks down into the Mediterranean. It’s provided Tel Aviv with enough light for now. I am sitting in Aroma in the port of Tel Aviv. The plastic chairs and metal tables cry out that they were stylish. Once. A girl walks past me, a cup of water in her hand, her ass moves from side to side with each leg she propels forwards. She is wearing grey jeans. She pulls a chair out from the table her friend is sitting at. She says something to her but the other girl can’t answer for she has a mouthful of sandwich.
The sea provides me with my soundtrack to the afternoon. A constant sound at once clearly audible and cast into the role of mere background music. An old man does up his jacket, he has his back to the hazy sky, a couple of girls jog past him and he moves forward a few paces only to stop. Hands in pockets, biting his bottom lip he is waiting for someone, or something.
Far out ahead, standing on the pier two fisherman converse. One sits on the soaked stone wall, the other stands with his long fishing rod casually dipped into the foamy water. It’s too cold for me to be sitting outside now. I make a move to stand but I don’t know where to go. I am not even sure that I wish to move on. But I can’t stay.