.il cafe corto.

il cafe corto. the espresso was short; bitter and strong. it served quickly, thrown onto the bar, clinking cup and saucer. the barista in peak of morning routine. a daily rapid fire of thick and dark shots craved by the workers. il tren, il cafe, il lavoro. all the days. all jostling at a bar uninviting pause. space sought by the few advanced in track for a post allowing a second’s serenity. though already he had it. and he'd already intended to slow and savour: today was different. he slowed and savoured. as coat, scarf, buon giorno, un cafe, un euro, grazie, ciao, scarf, coat continued around. only he and the greyed barista, one he had never met yet an amico grande, good friend, ever-present. it was strange, somehow new, and he felt foreign and irresolute. unsure as to why he usually was but a minute cog in the queer contraption he was observing. he watched, with equal unsureness, the faux friend at the helm. at the helm yet not master. as caught up as all. he considered on the peripheral contented. today unrestricted, unconstrained; unafflicted by immediate burden but not without time and not without plan - and never a master. the million noises and random dialogues patterned and were entrancing. after a while thought and mind only he attended. he wandered as the systemic roar softened then blurred. to why he was there; was it he or circumstance that had allowed this all. this scene. and to the night before even; its wave had never left - even in sleep - and each moment closer riled and lapped at him. he had glanced more than once in anticipation at the hands above the old man - and the hands were cautious and slow in movement. il caffeine was coursing, this he knew. but this was more; it wasn’t daily. and self-induced? No. Sadly – no. this he knew also, and would have no other way.

Indebted, un euro, an infinite sum. priceless. Money can’t buy me. he had been here before. and it never lasted long (enough). he knew to savour; and he sipped. his espresso was cold. and the noises had found their sources and redifferentiated into chaos: perhaps he’d savoured too long. the hands were changed. it loomed. it was imminent now. yet distant. and further yet, still at a distance. he steered his gaze away from the creep and from the infatigable machinist around the narrow bar past racks of il vino and spirits presented on show, and the diminishing paninis, croissants, pastries - as hotcakes - toward the source of the invited commotion and of his own. coats and scarves streamed by and on occasion, in a burst of cold and greater noise, one entered to partake. periodically one would stir him momentarily; deserving a second glance. and failed inspection only to rise anticipation and consent one further glance to the wall behind to tell still it was to come. But then one more, another inspection, another coat of promise. then a familiar scarf; to come through the doors. then removed, then the face he knew: the bright eyes; the mirroring glance; the smile. he swallowed the last of the cold distaste and bitterness as she approached: un euro, grazie, ciao, scarf, coat.