Red vs. Black

Chapter 9

"It's a real shame."

Zayn cuts his daydreaming short at the sound of the thick Italian accent. When he doesn't respond straight away, the old man points to the newspaper in Zayn's hands, the one he's been staring at since walking over with his thermos a few minutes ago. Its headline reads: Five South London police stations set ablaze overnight.

"Says they haven't got a clue who did it," Mr. Abramo adds.

Underneath the emboldened words is a photo of what's left of one station: charred walls, a sign stating its assigned borough burnt to a crisp, and the buildings on either side scarred by black stripes where the flames had licked teasingly. A rush of adrenaline races through Zayn's body at the memory.

"You haven't been sleeping again."

After folding the paper in half, Zayn stuffs it under his arm, taking a drink from his thermos with the notion that the coffee's scalding temperature will give him the pinch of focus he needs to adequately address the shopkeeper; he's got his entire commute to reminisce on the previous night.

"I was busy," Zayn replies with the hope that it'll placate the old man, but he's not ignorant and knows better.

"Working?"

In a way, Zayn thinks to himself.

"No, I've just had a lot on my mind."

The early morning clouds start to shift, and with it, the sun shines through. Zayn side steps so his shadow can eliminate Mr. Abramo's need to squint while staring up at him from his chair.

"Thank you," the man says, dropping his hand that was acting as a temporary visor. "Maybe if you got better rest, you wouldn't choose such ugly socks."

They both look down at the blue and white striped material that's visible around the edges of Zayn's black leather loafers.

"I'll agree that maybe I should've chosen black or grey," Zayn offers, "but I'm not saying they're ugly."

"Zayn, I'm from Italy." The younger male inhales deeply as he prepares himself for what's to follow, humoured smirk on his lips. "No one knows fashion like us. We are the fashion capital of the world. Listen to me, they are ugly. And to go with such fine Italian leather?" The man shakes his head at the catastrophe.

"Who said these are Italian?"

Lifting up his right sole, Zayn simply waits for the speech on betrayal that he's knowingly provoked. It comes in a unique blend of English and Italian, none of which Zayn pays attention to; his eyes are scanning the other international papers spread out on the table in front of him.

"What happened to your friend?" Zayn intervenes once he's finished surveying the shop's daily selection and is ready for a new topic before taking off for work. When he sees Mr. Abramo's confusion in the midst of his cool down, he points to where a brown SUV's taken the spot of a specific Mercedes.

A satisfied smile that only a proud racist could have spreads across Mr. Abramo's face. "The Frenchy moved. I was pleased because he hadn't come around for a while, but I had my wife make a special batch of Sicilian cannolis to celebrate the day the moving truck came and took the car with it."

It's a little overkill, but Zayn doesn't put it past the man. Maybe if he mentioned it was his doing, the banishing of the pretentious foreigner, he could land a box of homemade cannolis for himself.

"Well I'm glad you can sit in peace now," he smiles, taking a few steps back to signal his departure. "I'll see you tomorrow morning."

"You will," Mr. Abramo agrees, "but hopefully you'll be wearing nicer socks."