A cafe: mahogany tables, opulent leather chairs and the fulsome smell of roasting coffee. Satchmo sings about a wonderful world; his coarse, heavy voice almost palpable.
It’s dark out, the sun diffused in the autumnal haze. Leaves swirl on the pavement in the autumn chill, while indoors there is a gentle warmth redolent of a fireside; warm, cosy.
Outside, past the cafe window, babies babble and coo in prams; people rush by with shopping bags in their padded jackets, waterproof boots, and wooly hats.
Meanwhile, Steam from the coffee machine whorls and settles as drops on metal and glass. Couples buzz together like bees while having luxurious cakes and confections. They drink strange hot drinks in tall glass mugs, topped with luscious cream and chocolate sprinkles.
The light in the cafe makes everyone look attractive, it makes the colors subtle and cleaner than they are, and makes the outside look darker and greyer than it is.
There is a promise of colder weather coming; a promise of jingle bells ringing; X-mas choirs singing. A hope of snow that might never fall.
It’s all so melancholic.