Grappa at Midnight

@bruno

The rain has stopped, but the Piazza Unità still shines black and wet under the lamplight, and the Bora slips between the café's half-open awning and the empty tables like something looking for a fight. Bruno Santoro sits alone beneath the heater, coat still on, a second glass of grappa untouched in front of the empty chair across from him. He does not wave you over.