Chanan closes his book.
His companion
has gone sightseeing.
The coffee is drunk.

The day is fine, the sky
a watery blue,
pale clouds drift.

He sits and meditates
on another coffee,
another cigarette,
watching passing crowds,
visitors and natives
of Dubrovnik.

He raises a finger,
a waiter nods,
goes off.

Chanan notices
across the way,
at another table,
a woman sitting,
hat red
at an angle,
slim fingers holding
a holder with cigarette,
the red lips,
the blue dress,
cleavage,
crossed legs,
red shoes.

He studies her,
takes in the hand
on knee, the hand
with holder,
the fine way
of inhaling
and exhaling,
the smoke drifting.

She leans back,
sky gazing,
in between drags
she sips her wine.

He takes in
the fine figure,
the turn of head,
the shoes of red.

He imagines her
(while his companion
is out seeking the sights)
coming to his room
at the hotel,
soft music playing,
lights down low,
wine bottle and glasses,
the usual patter,
the romantic air,
the twin bed waiting.

His coffee comes,
the waiter departs,
the woman stands
as a man approaches,
dark haired,
slim figured,
trimmed beard,
well dressed,
an air of affluence.

They go off
arm in arm,
she wiggling
her hot behind,
her red shoes,
tap-tapping.

Chanan stumps out
his cigarettes,
sips his coffee,
nothing ends
like it seems,
he is left
with an empty evening
and a lonely dream.