Alessio closed the register drawer with a firm clack that echoed through the empty shop like the final note of a funeral march. Enzo was already perched on the counter again like it was his personal catwalk throne, legs crossed at the ankle, one designer sneaker dangling lazily. He swirled his espresso in its tiny cup as though it were a vintage Barolo he was about to judge, then lifted an eyebrow at Alessio.
“So,” Enzo began, voice dripping with theatrical relish, “how long do you think it’ll take before Dario pretends he doesn’t know her name? I’m putting money on three seconds. Four if he decides to go full method actor and commit to the ‘emotionally deceased’ aesthetic he’s been perfecting since she left.”
Alessio didn’t answer. He snatched the cleaning cloth and started wiping down a spotless surface for the third time that hour, the circular motion mechanical, obsessive, pointless.
Enzo wasn’t deterred. “Five seconds if he really leans into the dead-inside stare. You know the one—jaw locked, eyes vacant, like someone just told him feelings are taxable. Oscar-worthy performance. He should submit it for awards.”
Alessio muttered under his breath, “He won’t say anything. He’ll act like she’s just another girl behind the counter.”
“Oh, please,” Enzo said, nodding with exaggerated solemnity. “Just another girl who once held him while he cried the night his mother died. Just another girl who used to steal his hoodies and leave chamomile tea bags like little passive-aggressive landmines all over the apartment upstairs.”
“She didn’t leave tea bags.”
“She did,” Enzo shot back, eyes widening in mock horror. “Chamomile. Like a literal psychopath. Who drinks chamomile unless they’re trying to sedate someone into submission? That woman was weaponizing tea before it was cool.”
Alessio’s mouth twitched almost a smile, gone before it could settle.
“Seriously though,” Enzo leaned in, voice dropping the sarcasm just enough to let something real bleed through, “you really think this is going to be fine?”
“No.”
“You think he’s over her?”
Alessio paused, cloth still in hand. “I think he buried her so deep he’s been walking around with a grave in his chest for three years. Every time he breathes, he feels the dirt.”
Enzo gave a low, appreciative whistle. “Poetic. And morbid. I’m framing that for my next Instagram caption.”
He sipped his espresso, grimaced at the bitterness, then added, “You remember that night she left? He showed up here at midnight. Didn’t say a word. Just stood in front of the espresso machine staring at it like it owed him money. Ten full minutes. I timed it on my phone.”
Alessio nodded once. “Then he cleaned the place top to bottom.”
“Twice.”
They both let the memory sit between them like smoke that refused to dissipate.
Enzo broke the silence first, sliding off the counter with that fluid, practiced grace that still looked like he was posing for an invisible photographer. “She looks different now. Sharper. Like Paris took a file to all her soft edges and honed her into something lethal. She walked in today wearing quiet the way other women wear diamonds—expensive, understated, and impossible to ignore.”
Alessio tossed the cloth aside with more force than necessary. “Good. Maybe she’ll finally hit back this time.”
Enzo raised an eyebrow, mock scandalized. “You’re rooting for her?”
“No.” Alessio’s voice was flat, but his eyes betrayed him—something fierce and tired flickering behind the calm. “I’m rooting for truth. Whatever ugly, jagged version of it finally claws its way out.”
Enzo’s grin returned, slow and wicked. “You’re such a romantic.”
Alessio gave him a flat look that could have curdled milk.
“But really,” Enzo continued, sauntering toward the fridge like he owned the place—which, in his mind, he probably did—“I cannot wait for tomorrow morning. Dario walking in, thinking it’s just another Tuesday. Coffee. Routine. Repression. Then—boom—ghost of heartbreak past, standing behind the counter in his old henley, handing him a scoop of pistachio like she didn’t once rip his soul out through his ribcage and wear it as a necklace.”
Alessio muttered, “It’s going to be a disaster.”
Enzo opened the fridge, cold air washing over his face, and shot back without turning:
“Disasters are just stories with worse lighting, my friend.”
He pulled out the bottle of limoncello, twisted the cap with a flourish, and poured two fingers into a shot glass. Then he slid it across the counter toward Alessio.
“Cheers to chaos,” Enzo said softly, raising his own glass. “And to the poor bastard who still thinks he can outrun her.”
Alessio stared at the glass for a long moment. Then he picked it up.
The clink of glass against glass rang sharper than the register drawer ever had.
“Chaos,” Alessio echoed quietly.
And somewhere outside, the sea kept crashing, indifferent to the storm already gathering inside the pastel walls.
