Reportage 1, Week 2

Wrinkles zig zag down the back of his berry-colored shirt as the waiter weaves in and out of my vision, setting down tall glasses for the prosecco. His arms fling backwards, spread like victory, as the rush of his excited Italian climbs into a squeak and wheeze. His company spreads her already wide, pink mouth with understanding, though her eyes reveal nothing in the gradated lens of her sunglasses. She brings a manicured hand up to the large waves in her hair and the nails glitter bright as poppies. The fingers curl and wait there in the tangle of her tresses while her other hand works a fork over the appetizers. Again the waiter dives in, prim and dark in a perfectly pressed suit. He sets a plate of bread down on the edge of the table. The man with the berry-shirt calms slightly, reaches for a napkin and wipes his face. His feet shift just as the waiter disappears again, and then, almost as if timed he balls his napkins and his arms take up bending and swinging, like a dance or a sort of scale battling release. His companion tightens her lips and looks down at her plate. Her eyes remain unseen, but from the tilt of her head and the slow, pronounced way she chews, she no longer looks invested.