From the Fire Hills

The Barista of Sant’Eustachio

37 THE BARISTA OF SANT’EUSTACHIO Once, when he was young, he smiled. A flat hand smacked him hard across the mouth. He deals in darkness now, renders it less solvent, poised for sugar, which he and no one else incorporates. It is the only place in Rome where this occurs, where this can occur— the devoutness, I mean, with which he hates us, froths our milk, his face in polished chrome and pressure gauges. People come, for him, in just two shades: dishonest and dark. We are both—and foreign and Vandals— or gods at least, who hoist the sun up clothesline, carve out the hours of another ochre afternoon, as the Pantheon cools, slicks from touch. Surely he believes this shop a heaven for us all— his condescension just some form of worship mirrored by our impatience. We will wait no longer for our kingdom. And he knows. ...