Vito seemed to have melted into his seat at the corner table when I walked through the door. He was slumped down and leaning over his coffee and, at first, I worried that something was wrong. I looked up and saw the barista wearing his usual broad smile.
“He’s studying,” was all the young man said.
I slipped easily into the seat beside Vito, and my movement distracted him from the espresso cup on the table. He must have been in that position for a while because the crema – the light brown froth on the surface of the coffee – had dissipated and the black surface was clearly to be seen.
Vito turned suddenly toward me as if my appearance jolted him out of his reverie.
“I was just watching for the wrinkles,” he said, pointing his gnarled arthritic finger at the cup. “I had to wait for the
