*MAN IN THE BLACK JACKET
With the arrogant air you might ascribe to someone who actually owned the place, the man in the black jacket grabbed the nearest available chair in the empty cafe and swung it brusquely in front of me, blocking my exit. He let the metallic legs of the chair drop heavily on the tiled floor.
Clink, clank. Cu-lunk.
The man leaned in menacingly to ask in rather gruff Chinese if he could join me, but he wasn’t really asking, was he?
Hovering so close I could smell the worn leather of his jacket, he undid the zipper, revealing a buttoned up dress shirt with long cuffs. It was tailor fit; a dignified pastel yellow. The scent of cologne was strong, but it didn’t entirely mask the faint whiff of alcohol. After leisurely removing his jacket and fastidiously draping it on the back of an adjacent chair, he took a seat. Landing his elbows squarely on the table, my table, he clasped his rough, chafed hands as if he’d just come in from the cold.
“Oh, hello? Is this your table?” …