BY HENRI COLT
Copyright is held by the author.
CLIFF FINISHED tinkering in the garage and wiped his hands on a rag he kept on his workbench. The Porsche was covered and he had returned all of his tools to their proper place. He stood for a moment scanning the shelves. Then he uncapped his marking pen and made a list. Lately, he trusted that more than his memory.
Writing things down saved time, and it was crucial he return with leather polish for the seats of his vintage 911, and the apricot pastries his wife used to love. She didn’t recognize him anymore, but they never failed to bring a smile to her face. He wondered if she could remember how they used to split one after lunch on Sundays.
He sat on a nearby stool to put on his shoes and realized he’d forgotten his slip-ons. His back was still bothering him, and he couldn’t afford to be laid up again. Swearing under his breath, he pulled a bottle of ibuprofen from the cabinet he’d fixed on the garage wall and swallowed a few straight up. Then he pried off his shoes and changed into a pair of flip-flops. It was only a few blocks into town.
He was already late, but his friends wouldn’t mind. As he walked across the cobble-stoned street to the café, he saw Alan empty his cup into a potted plant.
Cliff shook his hand. “This place has the worst coffee in town. I can’t believe we still come here.”
Alan shrugged. He was a massively built former football player who moved to the village after leaving the league. Cliff was less than half his size.
“My father drinks this stuff all the time,” Alan said, “but it’s just too bitter for me.”
Cliff pulled a chair up to the table and eased into it. “How’s he doing?”
“Like always.” Alan cleaned the inside of his cup with a napkin. “Ninety years old. Living alone, and with all his wits about him. I’m meeting him after lunch.” He checked the time on his phone, then looked at his watch.
“They probably don’t clean the espresso machine often enough,” James said. He sat slightly apart from the others, leaning forward. “Or they use the same grounds twice.”
“Can they?” Cliff scoffed. “No way.”
Lorenzo raised a hand. “Gentlemen, gentlemen. In Italy, we never use the same grounds twice.” He pointed at James’s large cup. “We never drink cappuccino after twelve o’clock either.” He pulled a box of cookies from his bag and set it on the table. “My daughter brought these back from Rome.”
“They look delicious.” James pulled a few out of the box and slid one into his shirt pocket. “For later,” he said.
Sitting nearby, Amir stirred his coffee long after the sugar had dissolved. He reached across the table for a cookie, then thought better of it.
“My father used to have cookies with his coffee every afternoon,” Lorenzo said. “My mother would bake them on Sunday, and by the end of the week they would be gone.”
“Bella Italia, right?” Cliff feigned an accent and laughed.
“Naturalmente.” Lorenzo bit into one and closed his eyes, reminiscing.
Cliff turned again to face Alan and asked again. “How’s your father doing?”
Amir looked up.
“Yeah, Alan,” James winked at Lorenzo. “How’s your father? Is he still with that younger woman?”
Amir watched Cliff reach into his pockets. He patted them once, then again. Then he turned them inside out.
“I had it a minute ago,” Cliff said.
“Shirt pocket,” Amir said.
Cliff reached up and pulled out a sheet of crumpled notepaper. “Here it is.” He smoothed it flat against the table. “I almost forgot.”
“The pastries?” Amir folded his napkin carefully and looked toward the shop.
Cliff began pushing himself out of his chair. “You know how much she loves them.”
Amir lowered his eyes, pressing his fingers along the rim of his cup. He heard the light scrape of chair legs against the pavement. Cliff crossed the cobble stones in his flip-flops, list in hand, and disappeared into the coffee shop.
The others were already standing. Lorenzo reached for another cookie.
“I’m telling you, at a minimum, this place over-roasts its beans,” James said.
Alan shook his head. “James, you’re just paranoid.” Amir’s coffee stayed unfinished.
***
Henri Colt is a physician-writer and mountaineer who loves beauty in all its forms. In addition to his scientific publications, he has published many short stories and a recent biography of Italian artist Amedeo Modigliani, Becoming Modigliani.
