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I strolled alone in the Piazza even before the street vendors arrived. The municipality ride-on road sweepers blitzed the large paving slab area in minutes, leaving behind a damp floor from the water spray that left a clean look and feel.
My favorite cafe was a tiny, faded baby blue door with a small window beside it. The entranceway led to a corridor blocked at the end where it once was access to a large house, now excellently repurposed.
The owner, a young, hardworking man, arrived early to prepare his outdoor seating. I noticed his tiny chalk marks on the paving slabs and that he perfectly positioned each table, chair, and the large, single wooden slab standing room community table.
He saw me watching him and flourished his hand in a wave to his most comfortable Rattan chair with deep cushions, of which four were equidistantly placed around a wrought iron and highly polished wood table.
“Please sit down, madam.”
“Thank you, kind Sir.”
“Would you enjoy your usual Latte with a glass of water, madam?”
“Yes, please, but I have a question before you continue being busy. Why do you so diligently set out this cafe every morning? Does it matter if the chairs and tables are a little skewed?”
“It matters to me very much because it mattered to my father and his before him. They are all watching me, betting on whether I will slip even by one centimeter.”
“Have you ever erred in the task?”