No. 110 - The Tourist

Foster sat still, a contrast to the bustling city around him.

Very deliberately, he drew the tiny cup to his mouth and tasted the espresso. He pursed his lips. There was not enough sugar.

He could almost feel that he belonged here, even though, of course, he didn’t. He was a tourist like the hundreds of others that hurried through the square stopping and manoeuvring to take pictures.

Foster wondered why they didn’t slow down and try to remember what they were not seeing. A camera was a crutch, he had determined. He couldn’t feel too superior, he reminded himself. He’d only just decided on that philosophy between the door of the plane and the arrivals desk at customs.

He swirled the cup gently and the last intact granules dissolved. Perhaps, in the afternoon, he would watch from near the fountain.