IF OR IS | luberto

3 | A Second in Saturday

Espresso and sweet cream waft like the lumbering gait of a grizzly, slow and unprovoked. This, he thinks, is congruence: the amicable taunt of bitterness frisking about thick sweetness, coaxing it awake, inviting it to play. Mornings are matters of ebb and flow, and Luca is still caught in sleep, so he allows this one to have its pretty way with him.

He yawns; it prickles his face with frosted warmth through the northern window. He rubs his eyes; it asks him to listen to birds shake off cold through song.

So no, Luca may not be a morning person, but he is friendly with them. Years of schooling have granted him that much, instinct trained away by 05:00 road trips to science competitions, early hours spent in the library, studying or sorting, depending on his schedule. Thus, when Alberto wakes, presses a sweet kiss to his cheek, Luca is quick to follow, wishing him a grumbly good day before dozing for another half-hour or so.

The valve of the coffee maker depressurizes, dissipating the heavy scent with fresh steam. The cream simmers even after he removes the saucepan from the stove. Luca loves this ritual, makes himself a coffee every morning or midmorning or midnight before, after class or work or whatever he had going on that day, but somehow, it always felt more soothing in Alberto's old kitchen. His and Luca's arrival four years ago had given cause for renovations, two rooms tacked onto walls knocked down to fit their growing family, but the space stayed tight, still offering the same hominess that welcomed them their first summer in Portorosso.

He uses his mug—yes, his mug, with the chip in the lip from the one time he'd dropped it and officially licensed Giorgio Giorgioni pasta logo printed on the front—and takes a long drag. The bitterness bites a bit toward the end, so he stirs the cream to the bottom with his pinky.

It's the simple things.

You claim no pain.

He stares into his coffee. The tiny bubbles in its soft froth take turns blinking out. He can see the lighter ribbons of the cream, imperfectly stirred in.

"...sometimes forget the...."

Dwelling would be the death of him.

How does one confuse themself so thoroughly that their senses degrade into minor syllables? How are days reduced to seconds? He is trapped.

"...truth."

Of course, he knows it's absurd that he's here, standing in a perfectly tranquil kitchen, sipping on perfectly ordinary coffee on a perfectly ordinarily cool October day. His heart feels calm, beating in perfect adagio such that he can tap along with his foot.

Less than twenty-four hours ago, he'd been debating superfluidity and wave behaviors in a physics lecture, and less than twelve ago, he'd had a conversation with a storm. And now, he was here, hurried forth by a ravening anxiety that couldn't match tempo with reason.

"How long have you 'had' a hunch?"

"A couple of months now."

A dream, sure.

"Why are you here?"

You're my friend.

But at least twenty of them nearly identical.

"Luca, why are you here?"

I will tell no one.

Twice a week or more, every week.

But the truth of it? Out loud, it was embarrassing.

How does one gather the courage...?

How does one tell their best friend that they've watched them die?

There is coffee on his shirt. His hands are shaking.

When...?

Sun dapples piecewise through the dusty windows, igniting the limelight for the matter caught in the still air's riptide, knocked around by antsy particles, too hot! Too hot! Like they're burned with each other's touch. The clock above the stove reads 06:51.

Luca dabs halfheartedly at the stain. He'd better find something to occupy his hands for the next few hours lest he—

Hope to—

Lest he—

Break—

Lest he—

"...forget the..."

He should make breakfast.