Klip, Klop, the legless man walks, in his own way, on two stout, blunt, short, black, wooden stools, sitting on one as he moves the other. I too walk: straight past, not wanting to stop and stare. But how can I just walk by? I feel a lump in my throat, and pride in these people: the survivors. The legless man must have perceived me too, yet he ignored me - intent on the rhythm of his progress, shifting the weight of his torso from stool to stool on wiry brown arms.
stop.
stop here, at this cafe, sit down, smoke, order something.
"here's your coffee, the salad will be out shortly"
Klip, Klop.
