It is Fika time at Cafe Husaren in Haga, the old part of Gothenburg.
Shelves packed with every kind of pastry and cake.
The cafe is nearly full, primarily with tourists, by mid-afternoon.
On the wall, framed photographs of people drinking coffee.
One photograph is of young nicely-dressed gentlemen standing outside the cafe on the street, sipping at their cups with one hand, saucers held in the other, the inevitable umbrella tucked under an arm.
Another photograph is of a child dressed in a winter coat and a French beret, carrying a bag in her small hand.
At the surrounding tables, everyone is speaking Swedish, except for one young woman sitting alone.
She’s speaking English into her telephone, although I can’t quite make out what she’s saying, since her back is to me.
When she stands to get ready to go, she laughs with whomever she is speaking, says, “What are you wearing?”
She listens, laughs again, and says, “Yes, it’s easy to fall in love with you.”
And then she is gone.
I sip my coffee and reflect on young love.
