novella
Active Member
A short story
I remember the day I first noticed him . . . let’s call him Bruno, for that is how I named him that day, thinking only that he was the sort of Italian who finds art in life. Something about the cut of his clothes, the way his hair was just the right amount too long.
I was sitting at a table outside a cafe on first avenue downtown. I was the only one out there. That’s important, because it confirmed for me what Bruno was up to. There were a few other tables, all empty, except for where the cafe owner had left his empty espresso cup. I had a Campari and soda, which I don’t care for that much, but I was feeling sort of French that day. It was early spring and the street trees were just barely bright green at the tips, the air was too fresh for sitting outside. But the Campari glittered scarlet in the sun. I was writing a postcard to myself, something I do when I want to sit in a cafe alone.
“I love you, darling. Never forget that. It’s a beautiful day here. Three o’clock, and everyone passing by has sunglasses on. There’s a man on the phone, but he’s watching me. –Novella.”
I remember writing that to myself. That’s my first recorded sighting of Bruno. But even then, I had a vague feeling of recognition. Of course, by the time I received my postcard, I had seen him again.
I know. The postcard thing is a little unusual. But there’s a reason why it’s fun. It lets me live a good moment twice. I save them in an orange plastic envelope, each one a verbal snapshot, a message from real life. I favor the corny landmark cards. My card that day was of the arch at Washington Square, naked and white, like a big sugar cube.
I remember the day I first noticed him . . . let’s call him Bruno, for that is how I named him that day, thinking only that he was the sort of Italian who finds art in life. Something about the cut of his clothes, the way his hair was just the right amount too long.
I was sitting at a table outside a cafe on first avenue downtown. I was the only one out there. That’s important, because it confirmed for me what Bruno was up to. There were a few other tables, all empty, except for where the cafe owner had left his empty espresso cup. I had a Campari and soda, which I don’t care for that much, but I was feeling sort of French that day. It was early spring and the street trees were just barely bright green at the tips, the air was too fresh for sitting outside. But the Campari glittered scarlet in the sun. I was writing a postcard to myself, something I do when I want to sit in a cafe alone.
“I love you, darling. Never forget that. It’s a beautiful day here. Three o’clock, and everyone passing by has sunglasses on. There’s a man on the phone, but he’s watching me. –Novella.”
I remember writing that to myself. That’s my first recorded sighting of Bruno. But even then, I had a vague feeling of recognition. Of course, by the time I received my postcard, I had seen him again.
I know. The postcard thing is a little unusual. But there’s a reason why it’s fun. It lets me live a good moment twice. I save them in an orange plastic envelope, each one a verbal snapshot, a message from real life. I favor the corny landmark cards. My card that day was of the arch at Washington Square, naked and white, like a big sugar cube.