The man outside the bakery

His morning routine passes by slowly with the ticking of the grandfather clock standing in the corner of his miniature living room.

Tick. He feeds his dog, a miniature poodle. Tock. He opens the two small windows in his tiny, dark, low-ceiling apartment, all the while the dog pit-pats beside him. Tick. Time to do a cat’s wash. Tock. He makes his bed. Tick. He gets dressed. Tock. He waters his plants. Tick. He puts on his jacket and swoops up his dog, cuddling it in the crook of his left elbow next to his beating heart.

His dishevelled looks and formless clothes speak of elder neglect and loneliness. The health of his dog and the tenderness of their relationship tell another story. Slowly, he walks across the street and sits in the corner seat outside the Turkish bakery.

At this time of day, there is no one else sitting outside at the bakery, only a constant stream of kids on their way to school, as well as adults heading to work. The old man sits there patiently with his dog on his lap, watching the neighbourhood waking to the day.

When there is finally a lull at the bakery, someone comes out with a cup of filter coffee, two sugars, and a dash of cream, and places it in front of the man. He gives a short greeting and hands over a two-euro coin. The two spend a few minutes chatting until a group of school kids, almost late for school, rush in to buy their bread rolls.

Sometime later, when tired shoppers or other older people begin to sit outdoors at the bakery’s tables, the old man and his dog go back home, leaving the empty coffee cup behind.