Two young men, good-looking, elegant, fashionable, sitting at a table in a trattoria, Sugo is in front of their plates, one tortellini and the other spaghetti with fish.
Delicious, just to look at.
Between mouthfuls of food and a glass of wine they leaf absent-mindedly through my magazine.
I am sitting at the next table, I pretend not to see them, hiding, listening, spying, taking notes.
Could it be an idea for the editorial?
Whatever the cost, whatever they say, good or bad, I promise I will be a faithful reporter.
They eat and drink, the sauce spatters all over, but they don't say anything, they talk about their problems, their own business. They refer vaguely to work, plans for a wine company that wants a new image. Sugo is still on the table, between them, submerged under bread crumbs. The waiter comes, takes their plates and clears up, and when he's finished asks them if they'd like anything else.
A coffee and a slice of almond cake.
Perhaps this is the right moment, a short pause, perfect to pick up Sugo.
Say something, please, do it for me.
But nothing else happens, there is one last moment of hope when one of the young men, now they've run out of things to talk about, grabs the magazine and instead of leafing through it turns it round, without feeling, Sugo disappears and another magazine appears.
A few seconds of vain hope and then they get up, the young man takes Sugo, sticks it under his arm and goes out.
They've got a bottle of wine waiting for them in the office, but I haven't got my introduction and you won't have an editorial.
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