A Previous Engagement Read Online Free PDF Page B

the little guy.
     
    “Okay, Finn.” Talking to him was one of the rules, and the least I could do for nearly killing him with neglect. Slowly, I released the fish and all of his water into the bowl, careful not to disturb the décor. He swam a lap then settled at the bottom, floating just above the rocks. “Welcome to your new home.”
     
     
     
    ****
     
     
     
    By Wednesday, and still without word from Christian, I was worried about our weekly coffee date. If his calm, cool demeanor over the weekend was an act, what would I find after a few days’ time? On the way to Tosca’s Italian Bakery that day, my mind reeled with possible scenarios, none positive in nature. Shockingly, Christian stood at the ordering counter wearing a wide smile. His sandy brown hair was tousled with just the right amount of purposefulness, his blue eyes sparkled behind his silver-framed glasses, and even his Dockers were neatly creased and ironed. This was not the usual dressing-from-the-laundry-pile technique that was customary after a breakup. It was almost like Marcy never happened.
     
    “Bonjourno, Signore! Il solito, per favore. Un vaso e due tazze di caffé.” Christian ordered our usual in Italian, earning us bonus points—and two free cannoli—from the Antonios. I tapped him on the shoulder and he turned slowly, greeting me with a big smile—easy, carefree, just another Coffee Wednesday like every one before it.
     
    Tosca’s was a little neighborhood secret, owned by an adorable, aging Italian couple who knew all their customers by name. The tables were rickety, but so clean you didn’t need a plate. The coffee was just the way the Italians liked it—hot, strong, and without any of those crazy, trendy names. No demi anything, no non-fat whatever it’s called. Just plain coffee with cream or milk and sugar. The interior was equally as simple: white walls with pictures of famous Roman ruins; a black-and-white checkerboard floor; a shiny chrome counter and display case up front, lined edge to edge with tempting pastries in tiny doilies. They used real ceramic cups with sturdy handles, and when the occasional out-of-towner stopped in for coffee to-go, Mr. Antonio scoffed in that uniquely Italian way. He’d shake his head and say, heavy on the accent, “You sit. You stay. You drink a-coffee from this.” Then he’d expertly brandish a ceramic mug, fill it with coffee, and slide it across the counter. “You see. It taste a-better in here.”
     
    Coffee Wednesdays were our much needed mid-week break. When my brain overflowed with facts and figures, budgets and edits, I found my escape at Tosca’s. Likewise, Christian put down his camera and walked over from his studio. Together, we spent half an hour talking about whatever was on our minds. I couldn’t say how the tradition started, just that it’d been going on so long that my internal alarm clock knew exactly when to leave the office.
     
    Mr. Antonio brought our order to our favorite table in the back and Christian poured my coffee, carefully measuring out the right amount of milk. I inhaled the strong brew as the warmth reached my nose then took that first sip. Too hot, I set the mug down and watched Christian make his own cup and gulp it down, unfazed, before pouring a second. Around us, some members of the usual Wednesday crowd were already in place, typing away on laptops or reading novels. The sounds of these co-inhabitants, together with soft instrumental music and the occasional clattering in the kitchen, created the perfect soundtrack for a nice, easy conversation.
     
    Sitting here in Tosca’s with Christian, sharing a pot of coffee, enjoying the effortless companionship—I was happy and comfortable. Across from me, our knees touching beneath the table, he idly tapped his fingers against his coffee cup. We talked about Kendra’s son Riley and his latest escapade with crayons in the DVD player, a photo shoot for a male client wearing nothing but whipped