A glass of water, no ice, and a small white cup filled with dark strong very thick coffee. A pastry, with a slightly salty taste, crumby and delicious, and still warm. Sunlight, because I always take this table, near to the door, by the open windows. Guido is making hot fatty breakfasts for the tourists. The food will sit beneath heat lamps till someone chooses it later. For now it’s just me and him. Just the two of us, but he whispers something. What? I say, because of the noise of frying. He says I’m more like a tourist every day, and I laugh, but I don’t understand what he means. I drink the coffee and finish the pastry, and want another. But, like every day, I don’t have another. I leave the money on the table, by the cup, and walk out, as usual. Everything is as usual. But for Guido’s comment. I wonder what he meant.