Portofino // h.s.

Chapter 2

"So, what's his name?" Emelià asks as she follows me around the café watching as I collect empty used glasses and plates from the tables where customers sit, I can tell most of them are tourists because they are reading the English translation of our menu. I stand before two elder women sat at the table, their menus on the Italian side of the translation.

"Hello ladies, come stiamo andando?" I ask them how they're doing, ignoring Emelià.

"Oh Bryn, non piu." The woman on the right says as she shakes her head at me, waving her hands over the plate and I smile.

"That's okay, I'll bag it up for you and you can take it home." I say and she nods with a sweet smile. I take her plate and walk behind the counter and grab a takeaway container and put the left-over chicken pesto pasta in the container.

"What about conversations? What did you talk about?" Emelià asks me in an urgent whisper.

"Silenzio, Emelià!" I whisper back at her and she rolls her eyes at me.

"No, I won't be quiet, tell me about your walk home!" She pleads and I shake my head and close the container up and walk it back to the two old ladies.

"Can I take your plate?" I ask and the other lady nods with a smile, her tan worn skin crinkling around her murky blue eyes. I take her plate and go back behind the counter, Emelià following close behind me like a small child huffing that I won't entertain her silly questions. It's not that he isn't attractive and it's not that he is most likely a nice guy – he's a tourist. And he'll get what he wants and leave again.

My mind flashes to his dimple raising in his cheek as he told me he would 'stick around for a little while'... Yeah right. He's probably boarding the late afternoon ferry back to the mainland as we speak.

The sound of plates being thrown into the sink full of soapy water pulls me back from my thoughts and into reality.

"Don't you have a job to do?" I ask Emelià as I bend down to the dishwasher beneath the counter. I hear her groan and take the spray and wipe and make her way to the library section of the shop. I turn around with the red cloth and begin to wipe down the coffee machine. 

The sunshine peaks through the open windows and I inhale the scent of coffee and salt air, feeling peaceful knowing that the lunch rush is over and tourists are boarding the ferry back to the mainland. There are only a few people in here now, one man with a fabulous moustache sat by the window in the sun, his jeans cuffed at his ankles and a white singlet top tucked into them at the waist wrapped in a brown leather belt.

"What's a guy gotta do to get service around here?" I look up from the coffee machine and my jaw clenches at the sound of the English accent. I bite my lip and turn around, forcing a smile. His curly hair is even more unruly than yesterday and his cheeks have a pink tinge to them with sand across his forehead and chin. The bright red bandana he wore yesterday is now tightly tied around his wrist. His lips pressed into a smirk and this time, accompanied without a bag but rather a yellow satchel, with an assortment of metal pins, is slung over his shoulder. I watch as he takes off the satchel and places it onto the bench. His torso covered by a white tee-shirt, a paper-plane necklace dangling from his chest and a pair of small yellow boardshorts that look to be a size too small which makes a lump in my throat rise. 

"My eyes are up here." He mumbles at me and my eyes quickly look back up to his own set of green irises, my lips slightly parted in embarrassment.

"Sorry." I say quickly, feeling my neck flush with heat.

"What can I get you?" I ask him as he plops himself down on the red bar stool and examines the menu, still looking at the English translation. I examine his nails. His right-hand index finger is painted a black polish, chipped around the edges. It appears to be the only nail painted a polish.