She would exit to the sidewalk every few minutes and check her customers,
filling a cup of coffee or taking away a plate, only to stand in the
doorway for a moment and look off down the street before disappearing back
into the cafe. Her medium-length wavy bleached-blond hair moved strangely,
witness to damage from repeated styling. Even her clothes looked rough,
her knee-length jeans fighting her as she walked, her white t-shirt half
untucked and hanging crooked, but all the elements brought her a certain
exotic aire, made her look strong-willed and confident.
The cooler night air began to appear, rustling through the trees as it
wandered down the street and through the cafe. After the Spaniards went
onward, we brought in the sidewalk furniture and turned off the exterior
lights, closing shop for another day. I was still wide awake and the now
refreshing air begged me to stay outdoors for a while more, to go over to
the Italia and chat with the owner, sit at one of those black marble tables
and drink a strong cappuchino. The waitress was clearing her last sidewalk
table as I went inside, carefully balancing plates and glasses on a big
gray Rubbermaid tray as she glanced at me out of the corner of her eye.