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I. Poca favilla gran fiamma seconda.
He buys a cup of coffee and stands at the corner of South Street and East. People walk past him, barely noticing the man with the tightly-knit eyebrows and clutching the steaming hot Styrofoam cup as if his life depended on it.
At exactly 11:07 A.M., he abruptly turns the corner and pours the coffee down a man’s lap.
“Fuck!” The man frantically pats down his soggy suit with his briefcase, pinching the edge of the fabric and peeling it away from his skin.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, but his voice sounds rehearsed and unreal. “Here, let me help you.” He moves artificially, as if unaware of the weight of his limbs. He takes out a wad of napkins and plants it firmly against the stomach of the suit. It doesn’t help at all, but he keeps his hand there.
“It’s okay,” the man said, trying to laugh it off. He glances at his watch and grimaces for a brief second, quickly replaced with his usual bright smile. “It’s fine, really.”
“Are you in a hurry?” He stands there with a wad of slightly damp napkins in his hand, absurd with the dark grimace on his face, as if he tasted something unpleasant.
“Yeah, I have to catch my train—” He looks at his watch, and then shrugs, defeated. “I think I missed it, anyway.”
“Here,” the man said mechanically. “I’ll take you there. With my car.” He already knows the answer, and that’s why he’s reaching for his car key for his rental car that is parked just down the street, a little blue automobile that smells funny.
The other man studies him, and then a smile grows on his face. “Yeah. Yeah, that would be great, thanks. I’m Alfred, thanks for doing this.”
“It’s the least I could do.”
“What’s your name?” Alfred trots to keep up with his strict stride, wet coffee completely forgotten. His hair bobs up and down, and he looks excited. A little puppy who got lost in a man’s long-limbed body. But the other man looks startled at the question, the only part he hadn’t planned for. He quickly glances around, as if trying to snatch the answer from the air.
“… Arthur,” he finally says. “You can call me that.” He says his name slowly, with some distaste, but something like a marvel. He has the voice of miracles, a lilt to his tone that makes his rough voice almost pleasant. It’s a brief moment, but the moment hangs in the air between them.
“That’s a nice name,” Alfred said, hopping into the car enthusiastically. He beams like a boy, the love of automobiles shining on his face.
The moment had been broken, suddenly mundane. Arthur snorts and slides into the car, and then pretends that he needs directions to Alfred’s work. He isn’t a good actor, but Alfred doesn’t pay attention. Somehow it all evens out in the end.
II.
He buys a cup of coffee and stands at the corner of South Street and East. People walk past him, barely noticing the man with the tightly-knit eyebrows and clutching the steaming hot Styrofoam cup as if his life depended on it.
At exactly 11:07 A.M., he abruptly turns the corner and pours the coffee down a man’s lap.
“Fuck!” The man frantically pats down his soggy suit with his briefcase, pinching the edge of the fabric and peeling it away from his skin.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, but his voice sounds rehearsed and unreal. “Here, let me help you.” He moves artificially, as if unaware of the weight of his limbs. He takes out a wad of napkins and plants it firmly against the stomach of the suit. It doesn’t help at all, but he keeps his hand there.
“It’s okay,” the man said, trying to laugh it off. He glances at his watch and grimaces for a brief second, quickly replaced with his usual bright smile. “It’s fine, really.”
“Are you in a hurry?” He stands there with a wad of slightly damp napkins in his hand, absurd with the dark grimace on his face, as if he tasted something unpleasant.
“Yeah, I have to catch my train—” He looks at his watch, and then shrugs, defeated. “I think I missed it, anyway.”
“Here,” the man said mechanically. “I’ll take you there. With my car.” He already knows the answer, and that’s why he’s reaching for his car key for his rental car that is parked just down the street, a little blue automobile that smells funny.
The other man studies him, and then a smile grows on his face. “Yeah. Yeah, that would be great, thanks. I’m Alfred, thanks for doing this.”
“It’s the least I could do.”
“What’s your name?” Alfred trots to keep up with his strict stride, wet coffee completely forgotten. His hair bobs up and down, and he looks excited. A little puppy who got lost in a man’s long-limbed body. But the other man looks startled at the question, the only part he hadn’t planned for. He quickly glances around, as if trying to snatch the answer from the air.
“… Arthur,” he finally says. “You can call me that.” He says his name slowly, with some distaste, but something like a marvel. He has the voice of miracles, a lilt to his tone that makes his rough voice almost pleasant. It’s a brief moment, but the moment hangs in the air between them.
“That’s a nice name,” Alfred said, hopping into the car enthusiastically. He beams like a boy, the love of automobiles shining on his face.
The moment had been broken, suddenly mundane. Arthur snorts and slides into the car, and then pretends that he needs directions to Alfred’s work. He isn’t a good actor, but Alfred doesn’t pay attention. Somehow it all evens out in the end.
II.
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