Lila and I have moved to a new village for a couple of weeks.
Last night, I met a man from the States who has been living in this village for a long time. He was big and looked as though maybe he had spent time in a few boxing rinks.
He ordered French fries with a loud voice (and I immediately needed some myself) and then asked me what I did for fun.
This question always makes me nervous and I often feel as though I have to invent something more exciting than the truth. But I don't. What do I do for fun? Hmmm... I paint? I write? I take long walks? I dance in my kitchen? I get on buses and see where they go?
None of that pleased him.
He asked me: "You don't do anything bad for you?"
I mentioned the French fries.
That didn't count.
"You're going to live to 200," he told me with what I sensed was a little bit of disgust and maybe dread.
Before my fries arrived and with my body language suggesting that I would be eating them alone with Lila, I asked him what he was doing here.
"Killing time. I'm retired," was his answer.
I thought about people I love who had run out of time, who would have loved another day, another week to live, to love.
I felt very sad for The Man Who Wanted to Kill Time.