NOTUM: Study Of A Nightwalker ✔️

Hello

The tension in the cafe air was thick enough to run a knife through it, and it did a wonderful job of choking him.

The first sight that greeted Neil on entering was Mr. Benetto, with his hand resting on his sullen forehead. A scarecrow-like man sat before him with his arms crossed and face even crosser. Something told him that the man wasn't Mr. Gregor, the owner and former general manager of the factory.

Neil quietly snuck to the nearest table, presently occupied by their driver and sat down, sincerely hoping that Helga had ordered the latte. The driver's eyes were restless, checking his watch every minute or two.

He asked him, "Are you all right there?"

The driver spared him a glance, before looking at his phone again."Today is my son's college interview, and I'm supposed to go with him and be there, you know. He said that he'd call me at eight."

Neil raised a hand to get the waiter's attention. "Why don't you drink something," He said. "It was a pretty long journey."

The driver looked at him, and said, "No, but thanks a bunch, man. I'm allergic to coffee."

"You are allergic to coffee?" Neil repeated, his eyebrows elevating themselves. His cheeks restrained the tiniest of smiles to avoid being deserted in a village miles away from home.

"Yes Mr. Haufer, I am allergic to coffee. Is there a problem?"

"No, nope. Not at all."

The driver shook it off with a laugh, and asked the waiter for some tea instead. Neil saw Helga calling him to come get his latte. Helga had long red hair that reached to her hips, and stunning green eyes. Unfortunately for her would-be suitors, she was roughly as sociable as a mountain lion. Even when in college, she used to avoid parties like the plague and had spent the nights alone, bashing rock monsters with her game console. She silently passed him the cup of latté. He followed her accusing glare to the tanned, chubby, brown haired Italian sitting before them with his eyes glued to his cup. Neil ignored the silence that followed and drank his latté, eavesdropping on Mr. Benneto.

The conundrum his boss was caught in with the scarecrow-man was being resolved in dismally low tones. Mr. Benetto's poker face thwarted Neil's attempts at reading his thoughts, projecting a lone sign of displeasure. The scarecrow-man, likewise, had adopted an earthen face, with two dull eyes and a horizontal line for his lips. For quite sometime, neither of them exchanged verbal blows regarding the denial of important information. The moment he heard the words, "Let's go see the land," his heart skipped a beat.

It wasn't even two minutes before the director had stormed out the door, with the scarecrow-man at his heels. The scrawny teenage barista summoned the manager, who followed the two of them outside.

Neil jumped up, pushed open the glass door and walked out, disregarding the manager peering at them through steam fogged spectacles. Behind him, he could hear the tip-tap of shoes and heels against the pavement. The boss' bald head wove in and out of the crowd, pushing past shoulders and turning annoyed heads. Neil was cussing under his breath and wondering why he had to be a fast walker, when he felt a hand on his shoulder, gently tugging it.

It was Firenze, with his hair ruffling wildly in the wind, and bright black eyes wide as the headlights of cars. He kept pace with him, trying his best to subdue his flapping tie.