The Rendevous

I went to the quay early to meet her. It had been pouring rain for days. The ground of the promenade had softened, and leaves were rotting in the puddles. Although it was mid-August, the smell of autumn was already in the trees, the café terraces had been cleared, the white chairs and tables stacked and hastily covered with canvas. Nearly all the guests had departed; not a person was in sight. A thick, humid haze floated above