You've been sat at this delightful little café for the best part of an hour and a half. You've not had a sip of coffee, but the pot plant next to you has been remarkably well fed as you keep asking for refills. The pastry in front of you has not entered your mouth, but you've occupied yourself peeling off the thin layers of its skin, flicking them away in the breeze.
Your attention here isn't on the patisserie, it's on that church on the other side of the piazza, that magnificent stone building, that edifice of religion, that monument to faith. In your breathing days you used to attend regularly, you took the sacrament, you spoke the words, but you weren't there because you were a believer, you were there because of a woman, as you so often were in life.