The barista slumped down in the chair across from me. Vito wasn’t there so I suppose that I was a captive audience.
“Bon giornu,” he said with a smile. His sleeves were rolled up casually to the elbow, top two buttons on his shirt left open. His thick black hair tossled in a curly mess that any woman would swoon over. And his eyes, sparkling with youth and energy, held me in a tight embrace. After two beats, he leaned back as if he was resting in a lounge chair, one arm over the back of the wooden slat on the chair, the other spread lazily across the table.
Bon giornu“Vito. He is unmatched,” he began.
“How do you mean?” I knew that the old guy was one of a kind, but it seemed like the barista had more to say.
“Vito. He has many years, and he remembers so much.”
“Is that good, or bad?”
