Halfway There: This Charming Man

A charming man is always halfway there. We were halfway to the intellectual ivory tower when we decided mozzarella and bread were more important that writing a piece-- a disciplined piece-- made for publication. Despite looming deadlines, we opted for collab on the fly. Mauricio told us that he would make us chorizo at the tapas bar, but we opted for John. He was a little more provincial. With blue eyes bright as a toddler's, he spoke of days with patina. Mr. Baradino, as we later learned, had a wife, was an officer, a radio host for the Italian community, and had an archive. And hence, it was through his archeology that we discovered his soul: lively and sung. Speaking French like a working Italian in Paris, he played the drums on the counter and wooed us into a thirteen dollar tip. Not bad, for a capricious cafe on a lonely Connecticut road. He said our friend, la mexicana with almond-shaped eyes looked like the bakery girl who made his pastries, but never spoke; English was not native to her, but he liked her. Their eyes must have met in another world, where the subtitle is dialogic, even without words. We live through our stories on which ever side of analysis we lie. We are beings because we have history; without it, there is no present future or subjuntivo. A temporal twist of fate leads us only to words. Mr. Baradino's ephemerality was the reproduction we produced in our journey; not that it wasn't there before. But we found him. But we were only halfway there. This charming man and he doesn't got a stitch to wear. His stitch was what we learned to sow and we were only halfway there. He put his hand on the arch of my back like a salsero. In snow-capped Norwalk he told me I didn't need a viejo. Luna called me a coqueta. I was a little hungry for cheese and ham. Luna said: "I have proscuitto at home."