He sat under a canopy of trees, his espresso in front of him. He was retired with many memories of his fighting in the 1968 student revolt and years of being an engineer in many countries around the world. Now he was settled in our French village.
The twinkle in his eyes would qualify him to play Santa Claus at any Christmas village if he weren't so thin.
"Coco," he called. "Coco, Coco."
A white pigeon was three tables away, turned and strutted over to him.
He had a very small dish of pellets on the table next to his cup.
He handed her a tiny pellet, which she took from his hand. Then another and another.
"She visits me on my balcony," he said. "I give her moistened bread."
"She thinks of you as an out-door café," I said.
His eyes twinkled even more as he handed Coco the last pellet for now.
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