Rain, again

Hard grey morning rain is beating down on the market town, bouncing off the awnings, running in streams down the roads and streets. A sad-eyed Jack Russell sits on a wooden chair, staring out from the ‘b’ in ‘boissons’ in the steamed-up cafe window.

His owner, le patron, carries a tray of pinks in narrow-necked vases. He puts them on the table then opens the door.

Looking out and up, blinking rain drops out of his round, puffy eyes, he knows another week of rain could be bad for business.

He shuffles over to his pet, bends down and strokes a thick forefinger under the bony jaw and up the delicate white chin, lifting the little brown eyes to his own.

“It’s raining my little one, it’s raining again.”

An old man in an old beret wipes his face with a handkerchief and then orders a cognac at the bar. An office worker in a black suit asks for an espresso. An English couple in green fleece jackets and baseball caps, their faces pink and wet, ask for breakfast. The chef complains there’s no more bread.

The cafe owner takes a large burgundy umbrella from the stubby stand next to the door.

“There my little one; your luck seems to have changed. Time for a walk.”

The little dog springs off the chair and skips over, his paws drumming excitedly on the hard floor as if believing a handful of kind words will make the sun come out again.

Umbrella up, the stout man squelches through the puddles to the boulangerie, his little companion proudly, purposefully, trotting beside him.