Luca Cappai

As always, I stare into her eyes. It’s a bad habit of mine, staring at people. She doesn’t seem very interested in what I’m saying.

I’m telling her about the movie I watched yesterday. As usual, she tries to avoid the topic. I talk, she slides the little cup toward me. I pick it up and try to drink. Yeah, right. And here it comes — I spill the coffee on the floor. Another cup bites the dust. C. the barista, looks at me and laughs: “Who’s cleaning this up now?” and has a good hearty laugh. I apologize as usual and she puts up with my syndrome. By now I call it a syndrome.

Butterfingers syndrome. That’s the nickname they gave me.
I ask her for a cloth to clean the floor and she says “In the usual place.” By now I already know where to find the rags, but out of politeness I always ask. While I’m cleaning she brings up the movie topic again, but I’ve already forgotten what I was telling her. Besides being butterfingers, I also have terrible memory — luckily they haven’t given me a nickname for that one yet. I sit down and order another coffee. Coffee at the bar costs me double. One I drink, the other ends up on the floor. I drink this one quickly before it falls too. She glances up as if to say “Thank God it didn’t spill this time.” A lot of people wonder where this problem of mine comes from; I tell them I’m always lost in thought.I say goodbye to C. and head toward the pizzeria.

I always have coffee in the evening. I should have it after meals, but I like drinking it before dinner. Like every Thursday, I buy pizza. Outside the bar you can hear the quiet traffic here in Ca.

Lots of pretty girls heading home to get ready to go out to some club. I cross the intersection at P. and head toward the first bus stop. When the bus arrives I see immigrants asking for small change, but it’s not my habit to give any — also because I never have any. Dead tired, I sit in the first free seat I see.In front of me there’s an elderly lady reading a book. I hear her whispering, commenting. It sounds like she’s reading something moving.

Maybe a romance novel. I hear her say “Oh God!” as she turns toward the window. She almost starts crying.To my right there’s a homeless man. He looks at me like he’s angry. He seems to have something to say too. Is everybody talking to themselves today? He stares at me and his expression changes. He breaks into a mocking grin. Then he stands up and closes the window.

Behind him a young guy stands up too and immediately reopens it. The two of them start arguing over the window. One opens it, the other closes it again. They almost come to blows. The homeless man changes seats, cursing at the guy who got his way and left the window open.I’m almost at my favorite pizzeria in Via Roma. As always I say goodbye to the bus driver.

I wait impatiently for the door to open because I’m starving. I’m going to devour that pizza. What if I get two? We’ll see. Sometimes I even get three. They don’t make me gain weight because I have a really fast metabolism. I weigh about 72 kg. I have a bit of a belly but that’s from beer. Indeed I always pair the pizza with a bottle of beer. I like Beck’s. Finally I’m inside the pizzeria and I can order the pizza. The pizzaiolo is really quick. That’s another reason I come here. They never take more than 5 minutes. We always exchange a few words. The owner of the place is an old high-school classmate of my brother G.

They went to the scientific high school together.I take out my phone to check the time. I notice some Messenger notifications. It’s my friend Stefania.
I read it — she’s asking if we can meet at her place to watch a movie. She and I are very good friends, but there’s nothing romantic between us.I finish reading the message and hear the pizzaiolo giving me a sign that the pizza is ready. Stefano packs up the pizza and comes to the cash register. I pay, but first I have to bend down to the floor because my coins fell. Typical.