Conchiglie rigate smothered with bison meat sauce.
In Five Days
It will go by so quickly.
We'll get to the door, shake off our umbrellas and step inside. Any exposed skin, once embraced by humidity, will pimple with the slight chill of forced air.
I'll hold Roberto's umbrella as he pulls his handkerchief out to wipe the specks of rain from his glasses.
Roberto will confirm.
Cappuccino. Chocolate croissant.
I will nod. A smile will stretch across my face.
There's a table in the back. It's near the window. Nervous, I'll look over my shoulder and then back at the table.
I'm going to go grab that table.
I'll sit my bag on the sill and lean the umbrellas against the wall. Run my fingers through my hair.
I'll watch and wait. I'll look over my shoulder.
To my right, an older couple reading the paper. In a corner, a young woman with a flouncy scarf and rain boots will sit slumped, texting. A crumpled napkin and a coffee to-go sit amongst crumbs. In another corner, a young man with his laptop open, sits unblinking. His coffee getting cold.
I will think about sinking into that first bite. Buttery flecks sticking to my lips. I will think about that first sip. The perfect nest of foam sticking to my lips.