Damn, That's A Pretty Bridge.

“Damn, that's a pretty bridge, boy. Such a cryin' damn shame we gotta tear 'er down so soon. S'a cryin' damn shame. And after five years, too! Can hardly believe 'em.”


“Eh, you know Ricky, we gotta do whatever the bosses say.”


“Yeah, well I say fuck 'da bosses. Fine damn bridge we gotta tear down. Spent five fuckin' months on 'dat damn bridge, what pain in the ass, too. Problems out the ass and three men we lost on it! Three good men!”


“Yeah, I know Ricky. I was there.”


“Yeah, guess you was. But ya know, three good men die on a damn bridge, and here we all go tearin' 'er down.”


“Well, ya know Ricky, I don't remember you thinking they were such good men when they bit the dust, then.”


“They were still men, dammit. Men what deserved better than to die on a damn bridge what we gotta tear down five years later. And such a pretty damn bridge too.”


“Well, I just seem to remember you saying at the time that the one kid was better off dead, since he was such an--”

“You and ya damn 'I seem to remembers!' I can't help it you got the damn memory of a elephant! I think you just make shit up and say you remember it so's I'll look stupid.”


“Alright, Ricky. Whatever you say.”


“Yeah, that's right 'whatever I say.' I'm the damn boss on this crew and don't you forget it for a minute.”


“Yes, sir.”


“Damn straight, Bobby. Though now that I'm thinkin' about it, I'll give it to ya. That one kid, what was 'is name. . . Marty, was it? Yeah, Marty. What a fuckin' stink of a worker.”

“Ha, yeah.”


“Couldn't pour piss out of a boot with the 'structions written on tha heal!”


“Yeah, he was a dumb ass, huh.”


“My dad woulda said of that kid, he woulda said, 'That boy could fuck up a wet dream!'”


“Ha! I remember that time you said it was like they hadn't screwed his neural recepter all the way in and it was shorting out. Only thing could explain such a moron”


“Hehehe, yeah, what a fuckin' 'tard. Like he had the shakes or somethin'.”


“It made it all the funnier when he died from a power surge through the neural receptor on his rig though, didn't it?”

“Ah shit, I do remember that now. Poor kid. Weren't much good, and damn if those other two weren't niether, but damn, 'is still a shame. So many problems we had on this damn bridge and those boys dyin' in their chairs back home. And here we go tearin' it down.”


Wind whips over the surface of the bridge in streaks of blue methane skittering over its surface like demented little will-o-wisps, whistling through the the atmosphere in a never ending race. The pale sun's light doesn't do much this far out but the filters in the robots sensors correct that and it looks very serene to Bobby, the streaks of blue wind blowing fiercely over a broad flat surface, unbroken but by thin rails inset into it.


The bridge almost looks like a highway on Earth, but it's hard to get a sense of scale without reference, just seeing any short stretch at a time, seemingly floating in the air, suspended high over the surface on immeasurably tall stilts. From where the robots stand the surface is but an unseen certainty far, far below. The bridge is beautiful though, no one could deny. The colors reflect and refract off of it and it seems to be made out of glass or something more alien. Something blueish and luminescent, shimmering on a background of magically toxic atmosphere.


“Damn shame is all I'm sayin'. Still say the thing is cursed but I hate to see it go down.”


“Cursed? Ha! Ricky, you're crazy. Here we are and you think it's cursed.”


“Hey, you watch 'dat lip, kid. Anyways, wish these damn robot things didn't take so long ta' warm up.”


“Ha, I'd think you'd be used to it by now old timer.”


“Yeah, yeah. I ain't that old.”


“You know, I just don't get it either way. I mean, I appreciate the job and all, and it is rewarding, but I don't get why they need us. I mean, all this is built by robots anyway, but here we are, putting together the pieces that the robots have already built. Why not have the robots do it? Then no lost good men, as you'd say.”


“Yeah, see how 'dat turned out fo' the other outfits? Ha! Need 'dat human touch, and that's what we give 'em. Don't matter how much the robots do, peoples like 'ta see other peoples workin' on it. Makes 'em comfy and trustful.”


“Yeah, maybe. Still seems a waste. I mean, it's just robots running over it to carry all those minerals that the other robots got out of the ground. I mean, never even been a person involved in the whole process and yet we have to step in at this point and finish off the construction? Seems odd.”


“Eh well, either way the law says we gotta do the final construct, not like I care why. 'Bout ready to get movin'.”


A platform floats in the wind, outlets on each corner glowing hot with exhaust to keep it afloat, and on it stands the two robots, still and looking towards the bridge. Again, it's hard to get much reference of scale here, but they are large and intricate. Vaguely humanoid in shape, if a human were redesigned from the ground up to consist of every construction tool and apparatus ever made. If a human were designed to not be human.


“Ah shit, Bobby, I--”


“Fuck!”

It's Funny How They Do That . . . (Pt. 3)

The silence stretches on, so much so that Ellen wonders if she actually said it aloud this time, or only whispered it. Do you still love me? is what she thinks, but it feels too contrite to say aloud.

“I. . . What kind of question is that?” It's his normal voice when he's annoyed, but there's a bit of a quaver in it. She senses it more than hears it and another awkward silence begins. In the window's reflection the dashboard clock is reversed and she watches the minutes tick by. One, two, three, they begin to pile up in a familiar way.

“The kind that I should've asked long ago.”

And then a huff. There was a time when Ellen would've punched him in the shoulder and laughingly scolded him for huffing at her, for being a “petulant porpoise,” she'd always say, and laugh. The noise sounded different then though. I wonder if the Ascari pair up for life, she thinks, They do have two genders, so they must pair up, right? Bernard is silent for the rest of drive, staring straight ahead, his breathing even and steady as she stares at her hands, folded neatly in her lap.


The sun sets as the car drives itself towards the town home, prompting Bernard to take control once again as it nears the driveway. The garage door opens and they glide in, slowly coming to a stop. “Can you plug in the car? I did it last time.”


“Yes, dear.”


“And the dishes, can you unload the dishwasher?”


“I already did, Bernie, and I wish you wouldn't always remind me like that.”

She plugs the power cable into the socket inset in the front bumper of the car and as she looks up she sees a redness creeping into his face. “Dammit, I said I don't want to be called Bernie anymore! Why don't you ever listen!”


“I do.”


“Oh for god's sake, never mind. I'll go start dinner.”

***

Bernard is asleep when she starts reading about the Ascari. Pouring over the internet she's amazed at how little there is to find. So many opinionated pieces on what the Ascari mean for humanity, most either overly ominous or entirely too optimistic, and interspersed with mostly 'slice of life' articles about peoples reactions to the landing, and to everyday life beside them. Whole libraries worth of books analyzing the effect that contact with alien sentient life had on the worlds religions. Stories of all the sects that formed and quickly waned in the last few years since the Ascari had come. All stories, but none about the personal lives of the Ascari. None about their love lives, or lack their of.

But then she finds one. A blog by a young man in Portland who made it his mission to befriend an Ascari and seek to understand their home lives, their loves and their passions.

Two genders, yes, and mating in pairs between the two, yes, but romantically? The blogger found that the Ascari work together well in teams, work together well in general, but romance? The sex, they understood. That's biological. But more?

It must be a sad life. So sad, to not know love. That lone Ascari, people watching, she'd never thought before that the Ascari she'd seen had almost always been alone. Alone, unless together as a group on some project, usually on some public works project they were helping humans to complete, or some tour group being guided by a human. Any other time, alone. And maybe not.

***

The car chirps twice to alert her it's her turn to take control, that it's leaving the automated circuit and must be piloted manually. Ellen shakes her head out of its thoughts and grasps the wheel, still unused to driving herself, though she's owned the car for all these years.

“Yes, I'd like a double Americano with soy milk, please.” She smiles at the cashier. He smiles back and thanks her by name as he slides her card back to her across the counter and she blushes. She's not seen him at the coffee shop before and it seems so long since someone has looked at her like that. Curious. Interest piqued.

“Oh! And I forgot, could I also have one of those . . . Oh, I never seem to remember what those drinks are that the Ascari like.”

“A frazono? That's what they all seem to buy, anyway. Can't imagine you having one though, eh, Ellen?” A wink, and she blushes.

“Ha! No, for my friend. . .” She glances over her shoulder at the Ascari, at least she thinks it's the same one, sitting alone at the same table. Watching the people walk by and interact with an empty cup in front of him. “Thank you.”

The alien seems to be closely examining something across the street, through the window and through the customers inside, but when she approaches it the eyes centered on its . . . head, or what passes for one on the Ascari at least, look at her, narrowing. After a moment of silence the other two focus on her as well and she takes a deep breath.

“I'm sorry, I really don't mean to bother you, it's just, well, you know I spoke to you some time ago and it was a bit of a help to me and—Here, I bought you a refill.”

“That chair is not being used.” A pause. “If you would like to occupy it.”

“Th-thank you, thank you. And this, for you.” She slides the drink across the table and a little sloshes out, glistening on the wooden surface.

“Many . . . Thanks, kind human. This is much appreciated and will be seen as a sign of respect and kindness to my race.”

“I'm glad. I, you know, I doubt you remember me, but--”

“I remember you, yes. We had a . . . Nice conversation one day.” The alien's voice is broken and robotic through the translator, but she imagines a bit of warmth in the clicks and burbles that come out of it as English. “You had a companion during our last conversation. I see that is no longer the case.”

She chokes and coughs, caught off guard by the brusqueness of it all. “Yes, yes I did. Um, but I . . . I just wanted to say thank you, though you probably won't understand why.”

“I will try, kind human." It blinks. She never wondered before if they blinked. "What is your name?”

“Oh, well, Ellen. That is my name. And yours?”

“You may call me Erthnop, as it is close enough. Eelieen. A nice name . . . yes?”

“I like to think so, Erthnop.” She smiles again and blushes once more. Funny how she can't seem to manage a smile without a blush to go along with it. I guess I'm still getting used to it, she thinks.

The Ascari stares at her with all four eyes, but it doesn't feel like a stare and she can almost sense concern in that bizarre, alien face. He is waiting. “You know . . . Erthnop, I came to say thank you. You said something then, and I'm so glad you remember that time. You said that, well, there was a word in your language that meant . . .”

A long pause and the Ascari's eyes are so narrow that the dark black pupils are barely visible. “Yes, kind Eelieen? What did this one say?”

“You said there was a word that meant 'the joy one feels when one realizes there is still much to discover.' I think, Erthnop, that I'd like to learn that word.”

***

It's Funny How They Do That . . . (Pt. 2)

“Excuse me, is anyone sitting here?”

The Ascari looks up at her with the front pair of its two sets of eyes. The eyes watching her are narrow and black and centered in the middle of what she guessed is its forehead, while the other pair consists of one eye on each side of its head. These second eyes look just like human eyes, if a bit larger and more round, and Ellen can see them follow the comings and goings of the other costumers. A sharp, sour smell of lemons hangs over the table, barely palpable. 
 
“That chair is not being used,” the Ascari says, its voice coming flat and mechanical through its translator. “You may take it.”

“Oh, no, that’s not what I was going to ask. I was, um, wondering if you wouldn’t mind if I sat down with you, and we could…get to know each other?” Her voice trails off in embarrassment, and a heavy feeling like a stone makes itself at home in her stomach.

The silences stretches for an uncomfortably long time. Bernard is still at their table reading his newspaper, but his voice creeps into her head nonetheless. For Chrissakes, Ellen, what are you doing, bothering the thing? Leave him alone before you make a bigger fool of yourself.

Ellen is about to apologize and walk away when the Ascari asks, “What would you like to know?”

Ellen lets out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding in. She pulls out the chair and sits down, and her questions come rushing out in one half-relieved, half-excited, breath.

“Well, you see, my husband and I were just speaking about the many theories about, you know, well, hm. . . maybe you don’t? My husband says they’re all rubbish anyway, but we were discussing all the conspiracy theories out there about the arrival of your people to our planet, and I was wondering if you, um, had any thoughts on the matter?” Again, her voice trails off, and she sits in an embarrassed silence. Who wants to be badgered by these kinds of things over coffee and breakfast? He…she…it…isprobably regretting ever having let her sit down.

But again, the Ascari doesn't speak right away. Ellen doesn’t know if it is because its translator needs time to process all that she said or if the Ascari itself is trying to figure out how to answer the crazy woman sitting at its table. It does keep its front pair of eyes on her, though, which is a good sign if she’s remembering all those culture classes correctly. The ones on the Ascari the government politely encouraged everyone to take before the landing.

“There are many theories about our arrival among your people,” the Ascari says, finally. “Most are incorrect. Our first public visit to your world was a carefully orchestrated event by both the Department of New Worlds Contact and your Federation of Republics. It was an event many years in the making.” 
 
“Really?” Ellen’s coffee cup stops halfway to her mouth in surprise. “They told us all you were coming a few months before you actually got here. I mean, before your people got here. We were all quite excited, too.” Ellen gently lays her coffee cup on the table, her voice soft and wistful. “I think all of the government types were worried we were all going to go off the deep end but most of us were really happy. We felt like we'd made it, you know? All that dreaming and philosophizing that our grandparents and great-grandparents had done, and now we were really going to meet aliens! It felt like a dream, almost.” 
 
Ellen takes a sip from her now lukewarm coffee, lost in old memories. She remembers Bernard banging on her front door, how she had answered to find him panting and out of breath. But his eyes and cheeks were flushed with excitement. Had she heard? Was she watching the news? What did she think? Could she believe it? Real aliens! And how, a week later, still as excited and jubilant as he was when he first heard, he had twirled her around in the snow and they had their first kiss. 
 
“Yes, it was quite an event back home as well,” the Ascari says, and Ellen reluctantly lets her memories slip away. “Everyone gets excited when a new space-faring species is discovered. We have a word for it…it does not translate into your language well. It means 'the joy one feels when one realizes there is still much to discover.' We Ascari are old, and we have learned much. But every time we feel as if we have found everything there is to be found, the universe proves us wrong.” The Ascari wobbles his head back and forth in a way that Ellen wants to think is the Ascari version of a smile.

“Really? What are Ascari celebrations like?” Ellen never has thought of the Ascari as a celebrating kind of people, but before the Ascari can answer, a shadow falls over the table.

“What are you still doing over here, Ellen? You’re bothering him.”

“We were having a conversation, Bernard.” Ellen tries not to let agitation creep into her voice.

“Well, while you’re conversing, we’re going to be late. The eight-ten leaves in a half-hour, and you know what traffic can be like.” 
 
Ellen sighs but rises from her seat. “Thank you for the conversation.” She nods her head. The Ascari aren’t ones for physical contact; something about sensitive skin if she remembers correctly, and the Ascari’s head wobbles again.

“Thank you as well. It was a very nice talk.”

Outside, Ellen presses her thumb into the lock on her car door, standing back as the door opens with a whoosh. She ducks into the passenger seat as Bernard settles next to her in the driver’s seat. 
 
“I can’t believe you bothered him for so long, Ellen,” he says as the car’s dash board lights up and comes to life.

“I wasn’t bothering him, I think he really was enjoying our conversation.”

“Just being polite, probably.”

Bernard eases the car into morning traffic. Ellen turns away to face her reflection in the window. Again, she looks sad. Why does she automatically start looking sad whenever she is with Bernard?
Ellen fiddles absent mindedly with the tarnished golden ring on her finger. “Bernard, do you ever remember what it was like when we dated?”

“I remember two kids who didn’t know any better.”

There is a long pause. Minutes pass in the silence of the car's anti-septic cabin and Ellen is lost in her own reflection in the window.

“Bernard, do you still want to be married to me?”

Snow Angel (Pt. 2)

***

I clicked off the television with no idea what show had just been on. I'd been staring at the idiot box for hours without taking anything in, just staring and thinking. It had been three weeks since we found the first one, the first “snow angel,” as the news stations were calling her. Saw that one coming from a mile away. Two per week for those three weeks, bringing the total to six. One on each Monday and one on each Thursday, like clockwork, though of course that's not when we found them. It was when C.S.I. pegged time of death, but they couldn't get any more than that. Two per week like clockwork, and all easy enough to find. Purposefully easy.

And today is Monday. It is nine o'clock P.M. and I am sitting alone in my apartment, staring at a blank T.V. with no idea where to go on the case, but expecting a phone call any minute from Carl, telling me in his dumb, inbred voice that they've pegged another “snow angel.” He loves that term.

Bastard.

Nine months we've peen partners, since he transferred in from Syracuse. Maybe they were tired of dealing with that blank stare, with watching his little gears click together as he looks at you with his mouth open. They had to be; he'd been there for three years before they passed him onto us, no explanation given and none coming from him. It'd been my bad luck to draw the short straw and get stuck with the new “'tard” on the detective team. Just my luck.

But I'm stopping myself from focusing on what's really bothering me, which is why we've gotten no where with this whole thing. Much easier to focus on my idiot partner than on the worst serial killer the city's ever seen. Hell, the worst serial killer the state's ever seen, and we're getting no where, even with this odd pattern the killer's giving us. It's like a dream scenario where we have so many ways to track him down, but none of them are working. None of them.

And even now, it's that first girl I can't get out of my head. The first girl, lying there, contorted like no body should ever be, her arms and legs flailed out like a kid making a snow angel, her blood soaking in to the fresh snow. That's the image I can't get out of my head. Jessica Matthews. Poor kid. Something just keeps nagging at the back of my mind, telling me she's different than the rest, than the others who followed.

And from Syracuse too, it turned out. Poor kid, that would've been enough for me to pity her, but still. But all the others too, all poor kids, from all around. All college students, but not all from the same one. Seems to be an equal-opportunity killer, ours, but always the same type, always in my city.

All the girls between 5' 2” and 5' 8”, and all blonde. All attractive. All white girls in college, that's what ties them together and you think it'd give us something to go on, but nothing. I've heard on CNN that girls matching the description all over the tri-state area are staying home from school. Must be nice to get a break like that, even if out of fear for your life.

And then the phone rings.

“Hey boss, I know you're off the clock, but I know you said you wanted to know when we found the next one. . . Well, we have.”

I notice how he calls it “the next one.” Of course, we've all been saying that for the last two weeks like we're talking about the sun rising or the Mets missing another World Series. The next one, like clockwork. “Yeah, where is it this time?”

***

When I get there, Carl's already waiting for me. Even he's looking a little the worse for wear these days and I can see his big blank eyes are a little blood shot, even when they're staring at me like lost puppy. Must be a hell of a killer to make a moron like him care. “What's the story?”

He looks at me and I know that his little gears are turning, trying to put together the words. I can practically see them locking and twisting in his skull, computing the math. “Same as always, Ceeze. Dead girl in the snow.”

His brows furrow at least when he says it, so maybe he does have some remorse at having to see all these broken bodies, but I have to focus on the scene. No matter how much I hate to, after this many.

It's another one, this time behind the dorms, sprawled out in the still falling snow by a dumpster, like the killer couldn't be bothered to throw her in. Carl says she was found by a couple of college kids who were necking in the alley between the buildings. Ran screaming without damaging the scene, thank god. But it's blood everywhere, again. A young, short blond, again. The same thing every time, with me and Carl standing over it. “Gee Ceeze, you'd think he'd run out of girls like that after a while, huh?”

I spin from the horrid scene before me and look at Carl, hard. “That's...”

But I see his lip shaking and realize there was a quaver in his voice when he said it. It's getting to him, seeing this again and again. Must be hard, guy his age, seeing all this. Seeing all these kids, same age as him, dying so painfully. Still in school, like he could've been if he wasn't just some dumb cop. I swear he's trying hard not to cry out of those wide eyes of his. I can't help but feel for him, and that says a lot. “Hey man, why don't you back off of this case, eh? We aren't making any progress and you've been working as much over time as me on this thing. Why don't you go home, yeah?”

“Nah Ceeze, I'm fine.” There's definitely a tear running down his cheek. I can see it even with the snow falling between us, leaving us both with a smooth sheen of white on our black uniforms. A distinct shade of grey.

“Really...” I put my hand on his shoulder, the first time I've ever touched him aside from the hand shake when we met and they said he was my new partner. I realize that as much as I've been making fun of this poor fool in my head, all the while he's a person just like me, and at least as shook up by all this. And the tears are flowing more freely now down his cheeks, leaving little lines in the snowflakes falling on his red cheeks. He's crying and sniffling at me. Great. “It's alright man, it's alright. I understand.”

“I know.” His eyes are hard for a second, harder than I've ever seen them. Maybe he's manning up and maybe I'll be able to go home without having to hug him. God willing. “I know you understand, Ceeze. I know.”

And I feel the barrel of his service pistol in my stomach, and I notice that his was the only car on this scene when I got here. And suddenly I do understand.

It's Funny How They Do That. . . (Pt. 1)

“It's funny how they do that, isn't it?”


“What's that, then?”


“The Ascari. Do you ever notice that? The way they rub their hands together when they're standing idle, like houseflies?”


Bernard looks up from his paper and glances around. Sure enough, across the street an Ascari is standing at the corner waiting to cross, diligently rubbing his hands together much like a housefly. “Huh. I guess they do at that, then. Funny.”


“Exactly. Strange.” Ellen has sat down her tablet and is now staring, fascinated, at the Ascari crossing in front of a car that politely waved it on. “Strange the whole thing, you know? Though I've never thought about it. They look so much like us, but they aren't. Seems strange.”


“Strange? How's that?” The words float over the top of the newspaper. He turns a page.


“Just, you know. You'd think a different species, born in an entirely alien . . . environment might be a bit different. But there they are, two legs, two arms, something like a head. It all seems mighty convenient.”


“Oh come now.” He lowers the paper, glancing over the top. “Next you'll be one of those conspiracy nut jobs they talk about online. You know, just yesterday I read about this fellow who claims that they're all a synthetic species, engineered by the mega-corps to create a new market segment. Says it's all a capitalist conspiracy to make more money, and goes on to say that they were originally meant to be much more alien, but the clothes manufacturers kept them humanoid to make it easier to sell the current stock.”


“Well, that doesn't make much sense, though”


“Well, you're the one talking about it being convenient. He did go on to say though that it was deeper, you know? That they planned it so the Ascari would hit the ground running with a different culture and different styles, which all us rabid consumers would automatically mimic, thereby having everyone go out and buy a new wardrobe, etc. etc.”


“Hmmpf. You're making fun of me.”


A chuckle, always a chuckle from Bernard at Ellen's expense. Just like a man, she thinks, to make fun of me. Still, she finds herself exiting her novel and looking up the kook with his capitalist conspiracy theories. It actually all makes a bit of sense, when you get down to it.

“You know, what if they really are some sort of crazy synthetic species which was cooked up to distract us or something. You never do know, what with the government and the companies being all in each other's beds these days.”

“You're sitting over there reading those damn conspiracies, aren't you! Ha!”

“Well, you got me on to it, you did! It's interesting, don't you think?”

He lays his newspaper down, careful to fold it just so it was at first, and stands. “Yes. Interesting. I have to use the restroom.”

That's the only way he knows to end an argument, a conflict, anything. To leave. Small bladder, my arse. He just doesn't want to talk to me. Ellen thinks the same thoughts she's had often for the last seven years. Seven years. . . So it's been that long since the Ascari landed too then. She always remembers because the Ascari's descent was exactly one week before their first kiss. Seven years.

She looks around, pensive. The Silent Pearl is moderately full, most of the tables outside are occupied, but those within are sparse. Couples leaning over their coffee, chatting; A few college students entrenched under mounds of papers, tablets, or computers. Everyone wrapped up in their own little world. All except for the one Ascari. It's funny though, she didn't notice it when she came in or when they sat down. She's sure she would have if it had walked past her, though. Maybe it was there the whole time, sitting at a table alone, a cup of whatever that drink is they like in front of it, untouched.

It's so hard to tell their genders, they all look so much alike, but she does remember that they do have genders, two of them no less. Whatever its gender though, the alien sits and watches, looking out at the coffee patrons going about their lives. Slightly ominous now that she's noticed it, though it seems harmless enough.

Bernard returns, stern faced. “Damn Ascari must've been in the toilet before me. Had that smell about it. Like rotten lemons.”

“Oh, you always say that. I think it smells kind of nice, like an air freshener.”

He picks the newspaper back up and folds it out carefully, not a glance toward anything but the paper and his coffee, “Ha, you would, at that.”

“Don't be like that Bernie dear, please?”

“Oh, pish, and don't call me Bernie, you know it gets on my nerves.”

“You used to like it.”

“And I wore diapers once too, didn't I? Things change. People change. Enough said.”

Ellen looks down at the dark screen of her tablet. Its black, shiny surface looks back at her and she can see her reflection in it. Her face is sad, though Bernard of course wouldn't notice. It seems he notices all too little these days. It seems hardly anyone notices much these days about her.

“You know, I'm going to go and ask that lone Ascari in there what he thinks of all this conspiracy nonsense. He looks like he's nothing better to do.”

“Sure dear, that's nice.” Bernard doesn't look up, but does give her an evil glance when her leg brushes the table and coffee mugs clink together. “Careful.”

She walks away without a word towards the door inside, to the Ascari's table.