same yellow puddle

Today, a slow feeling. Not really, no just fahy slow. Walk through the cold town, empty but for one other crossing the wide main road, now a cotbled pedestrian zone. Pass a very short distance from each other, neither man veering from a straight course.
The young man with the red shoes is standing at the bus stop. Dolores is in the shelter
, mumbles.
, a morning greeting. Standing beside the bus shelter, look out over the river. The hotel is brightly lit, a glare of light from the empty breakfast room, a room with a glass front to the river. On the embankment wall on this side of the water there are ten ducks, quacking to each other. They are probably waiting to be fed.
The bus arrives, be the last one on board, as always. Pay the driver, two Euro and twenty outs, receive one Euro in return. Sit at the reat of the bus, next to the back door.

The railway station forecourt is utterly deserted bare of people. It is strange, there are not even people visible inside the station. The waiting area in front of the cafe is empty. In the cafe itself, there is only the baldheaded man with the heard behind the counter. He takes the stamping card, and the money, and puts an empty paper cup under the machine. Then he turns to the next customer,
It is a day like most of the others, almost more so. At the bottom of the granit stairs, at the beginning of the long tiled corridor under the tracks, there is that same yellow puddle, the roof is still dropping even though the rain stopped yesterday. One man pauses and looks back at it with a surprised expression on his face. Then, he walks on. At the ascent to platform six go up the stairs. The train is just arriving.