I met Scipio at Mathilde’s yesterday. He was late and huffing–and amazing for a March day in Marblehead–was actually breaking a sweat.
He was carrying a load of blue books he said he hadn’t had time to grade over the spring break.
“You know,” I said with just a hint of disapproval, “It’s harder to do when there’s no time than when there’s a little time.”
He ignored me and looked toward the barrista. She was new: long blonde hair, a runner–you could tell from the way her underarmor outlined her legs–and took an instant dislike to Scipio as soon as she saw him. I guess some men would find her attractive. Scipio did.
“You’re too obvious,” I hissed. “It’s getting embarrassing to come here with you. I think the last waitress left because you wouldn’t stop staring–what was her name…”
“Maria,” he said without a pause.
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