She knew that the lad at one of her window tables was younger than his height indicated because he sniffed his can of Sanpellegrino before pouring it instead of when his lips were near the filled glass as a grownup might do. There was distrust in his eyes, like it might be too sharp, too fizzy, or too Italian.
She knew he was young because his back was bent, not crushed by heavy years but folded like a deckchair, trying to conjure invisibility. There wasn’t enough of him to fill his body yet, screaming boy not man. He’d never used his height, never controlled rooms with it, towered above a bully, or spat on underlings in a furnaced kitchen.
She knew he was young because the man opposite leaned in and questioned his future as though it stretched ahead endlessly and might not feel too late to change path. The boy thanked her when she placed the pizza in front of him and asked for ketchup, please. He said I’ll figure everything out, Dad. Not for a moment did he fear he would become her.
She knew he was young because when his father probed whether he was sure-sure he didn’t want to go to university or do an apprenticeship and wouldn’t regret it later, he nodded and said he was one hundred percent certain it was the right decision and would all be okay. She handed a bottle of ketchup to the tall boy whose drink was too risky.
I love your visuals. Nicely done, Hannah!
ReplyDeleteThank you!
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