RED FLAGS
ENGLISH
Avocado Toast, Beignets, and Other Red Flags
A Comedy of Errors in Two Acts
By Benjamin Gavarre
The action takes place on a Saturday
afternoon on the sidewalk patio of "The Velvet Fig," a trendy brunch
bistro in the heart of New York City's West Village.
Characters
·
Alexandra "Alex" (36): Independent art curator in Chelsea. Sees herself as a displaced
Parisian aristocrat trapped in American vulgarity. Calculating, selective, and
afflicted with terminal class-blindness: anyone wearing an apron is completely
invisible to her.
·
Lucy (35): Her college best friend. Freelance
book-cover illustrator, chronically single, and starving for both affection and
simple carbohydrates. Has zero filter between her brain and her tongue, and
uses the waiter as her visual emotional-support animal.
·
Matteo (29): A waiter from Milan of sculptural
beauty and Olympic indifference. Knows he is light-years above the clientele,
remains completely invisible to Alex, and acts as Lucy's silent conspirator.
· Rowan (38): Experimental Bushwick documentarian. No car, weaponized therapy-speak,
manicured beard, and vintage raw-denim skinny jeans so tight they cut off his
circulation. Actively ignores the waiter to hide his
glaring insecurity.
·
Brad (42): Commercial real-estate developer and
contractor from Long Island. Drives a leased Escalade, wears a flashy diver's
watch and a linen shirt straining over a craft-beer gut, and suffers from
treacherous acid reflux. Pretends the waiter is a piece of patio furniture so
his "alpha provider" ego doesn't deflate.
·
Chase (34): Urban landscape architect. Athletic,
grounded, wearing a fitted black t-shirt and normal jeans, with a healthy
appetite and a direct gaze. Though he briefly measures himself against the
waiter's height upon arrival, he has a great sense of humor and zero pretension.
Set Design
A central wrought-iron bistro table with four chairs, flanked by potted
ferns and ivy. On the table sit ceramic matcha mugs, a wire basket of powdered
brioche beignets with salted caramel dip, pints of hazy IPA, plates of
poached-egg avocado toast, and a metal napkin caddy. To one side stands a
minimalist service station where Matteo leans as if posing for an editorial
campaign in Milan. Upstage, a slatted wooden screen marks the hallway leading
to the restrooms and the register.
Act One
Tableau One
The patio at five o'clock in the afternoon. Alex, immaculate with
designer sunglasses perched on her head, scrolls through her phone as if
auditing the Federal Reserve. Across from her, Lucy desperately licks the
powdered sugar and caramel off the wax paper lining the beignet basket, an open
moleskine notebook beside her elbow. Three steps away, leaning against a pillar
with a tray tucked under his arm, stands Matteo: six-foot-three, jawline
chiseled from Carrara marble, rolled-up black sleeves, and a gaze of
metaphysical boredom. He watches the patrons like an exiled duke observing
beetles.
Scene I
Alex, Lucy, and Matteo.
Lucy: (Eyeballing Matteo out of the corner of her eye while licking caramel
off her index finger). Hey, Alex,
are you sure we shouldn't order another round of truffle avocado toast before
the parade starts? When my blood sugar drops, I get anxious, my brain
short-circuits, and I start saying unhinged things.
Alex: (Without looking up from her screen, snatching the wax paper away
with two fingers). You say
unhinged things after a three-course meal, Lucy. Focus, please—today's
logistics are surgical. I booked three prospects forty-five minutes apart at
the exact same table. That way I don't pay for an Uber, I don't ruin these
heels on the West Village cobblestones, and I evaluate them on my home turf.
Matteo approaches with feline grace to clear a crumpled napkin. Alex
doesn't even blink; to her, a draft of wind just blew past. Lucy, however,
cranes her neck to track every millimeter of Matteo's latissimus dorsi, fanning
herself with her notebook. Matteo catches Lucy's trance, offers her a
micro-smile of indulgent superiority, and wordlessly slides a fresh, piping-hot
beignet from his tray onto her plate before returning to his pillar.
Lucy: (Pressing a hand to her chest, whispering to herself). God bless the Schengen visa program... (To Alex). Three guys in one afternoon, Alex. Meanwhile, I'm going on nine
months of a desert drought, surviving strictly on eye candy. If you have a
leftover who's even slightly defective, toss him my way, yeah? My bar is in
hell: if he breathes, has his own teeth, and doesn't split rent with his ex,
I'm sold.
Alex: (Snapping her fingers into the air without looking toward the pillar). Excuse me, more Pellegrino. (To Lucy). That lack of standards is why you're still riding the L train alone.
I'm done wasting my thirties, Lucy. Honestly, American men just don't measure
up anymore. I need a tall European—someone well-read from Paris, or at least an
open-minded Scandinavian architect. In this city, there isn't a single man
worth looking at.
Lucy's eyes go wide. She looks at Matteo—who is currently pouring
sparkling water eight inches from Alex's face looking like a freshly oiled
Renaissance statue—and then back at Alex, baffled that her friend hasn't even
registered his existence.
Lucy: Alex... are you seriously blind, or—
Alex: (Cutting her off, checking her compact mirror). Of course I see the bleak reality, babe: on the
first date, every guy here acts hyper-progressive, quotes bell hooks, and brags
about his therapist, but the second you move in together, they refuse to load
the dishwasher and turn into a 1950s patriarch the moment their ego gets
bruised. That's why I use invisible tests: how they react to a dirty plate in
their space, how they act when the check hits the table, and how they handle
competition. Which is where you come in: if the MTA delays someone and two guys
overlap, the one on his way out is officially your date.
Lucy: (Sighing, looking back at Matteo for aesthetic comfort; Matteo raises
an eyebrow with Milanese irony and gives a slow nod, offering condolences for
her friendship). Fine, whatever.
Oh, God—here comes your five o'clock! Sweet mother of circulation... are those
jeans or did he spray-paint his legs with liquid latex?
Scene II
Rowan enters carrying a folding-bike helmet under his arm and a tattered
literary tote bag. He walks in tiny, stiff steps because the raw Japanese denim
of his ultra-skinny jeans barely allows his knees to bend.
Rowan: (Offering an air-kiss from a safe distance). Alexandra, how restorative to converge in a space
that hasn't been completely sterilized by corporate chains. Forgive the
three-minute delay—I was biking over the Williamsburg Bridge from Bushwick,
unpacking the concept of emotional gentrification.
Alex: (Switching into gallery-empress mode). Rowan, lovely to see you. This is my friend Lucy;
we were just wrapping up an editorial consult, so she's about to head out.
Sit—what are we drinking? Matcha? Cold brew?
Matteo steps silently to the table to take the order. Rowan looks up,
comes face-to-face with six-foot-three of anatomical perfection, and suffers a
visible spasm of male inadequacy. He immediately jerks his chin toward the
awning, puffs out his narrow chest, and addresses the potted fern so he can
pretend Matteo doesn't exist.
Rowan: (In an artificially deepened baritone, speaking directly to the fern). A double-dry-hopped sour IPA on draft and the
deconstructed avocado toast with pickled shallots. I need the omega-threes
today—I was up until four in the morning color-grading my docu-essay on
late-stage cis-hetero fatigue.
Matteo gazes down at him with infinite pity, shares a quick glance with
Lucy—who is biting her lip to keep from laughing at Rowan ordering beer from a
houseplant—and glides away without a sound.
Lucy: (Staring at Rowan from the waist down). So, Rowan... do your creative thoughts ever go
numb from all that textile compression? I mean—great silhouette! Very
hydrodynamic!
Rowan: (Flattered, struggling for three seconds to cross one leg over the
other). It's unwashed selvedge
denim from Kyoto, Lucy. I like to subvert the toxic, hyper-masculine
baggy-cargo paradigm. I'm deeply committed to non-hierarchical partnership; to
me, an autonomous woman like Alexandra is a horizontal equal.
Alex: (Smiling wickedly, subtly nudging two empty ceramic mugs and a plate
smeared with egg yolk into Rowan's elbow space). It is so refreshing to hear a man articulate
that, Rowan. Hand those over to the busing tray right behind you so we have
room to breathe, would you?
Rowan: (Recoiling from the dirty ceramic as if it were radioactive). Oh, wow, no—I don't engage with uncurated food
waste, babe. Besides, with the two of you here, women just possess a much more
organic spatial intuition for clearing tables without disrupting the vibe. I'm
more of a macro-concept director.
Matteo returns with the sour IPA and the avocado toast. Seeing that
Rowan refuses to move his elbows an inch, Matteo sets the pint down and clears
the dirty dishes with one hand in a single, effortless sweep. Rowan clears his
throat loudly and strokes his beard while staring toward Bleecker Street,
actively refusing to acknowledge the waiter's physical existence. Lucy
scribbles furiously in her notebook under the table while admiring Matteo's
forearms.
Tableau Two
Twenty minutes later. Rowan has finished his IPA and half the avocado
toast. Suddenly, Brad strides down the patio entrance twenty minutes early,
twirling a heavy Cadillac key fob on his finger, his sky-blue linen shirt
stretched to the limit over a prominent belly, wearing cologne detectable from
three blocks away.
Scene I
Alex, Lucy, Rowan, Brad, and Matteo.
Alex: (Hissing under her breath to Lucy). Shit, Brad is already here! Who shows up twenty minutes early in
Manhattan?! Execute emergency protocol, Lucy—Rowan is yours!
Brad: (Booming like a foreman over a jackhammer). Afternoon, ladies! Alexandra? Brad, from the
development firm. I know how the Holland Tunnel backs up on Saturdays, so I
built in a buffer and tossed the Escalade keys to the VIP valet up the block. (Spots Rowan and his grin vanishes). Whoa... didn't realize this was a panel
discussion.
Alex: (Smooth, flashing a royal hostess smile). Brad, what impeccable timing! Don't mind him,
this is Rowan—Lucy's new boyfriend. He was just telling us all about his little
documentary before taking her for a walk through Washington Square Park. Aren't
they the cutest couple, Lucy?
Rowan: (Baffled, standing up abruptly—which causes his vacuum-sealed skinny
jeans to outline every microscopic detail of his anatomy right at eye level
with the table). I'm sorry? What
are you projecting right now, Alex, when you and I matched—
Lucy: (Staring straight ahead at Rowan's belt buckle, completely
unfiltered). In his dreams! With
that tiny package hiding in its own shadow... wait, did I just say that out
loud?
Dead silence falls over the patio. Brad's eyes bug out, Rowan
instinctively covers his pelvis with his bicycle helmet, and Alex buries her
forehead in her palm. By the pillar, Matteo slowly lowers his chin and covers
his mouth with the back of his hand to hide a genuine grin, looking at Lucy
with absolute comedic respect.
Lucy: (Panicking in the mortal silence). I meant... his bike pack! Casting a huge artistic shadow! Come on,
babe—I mean, Rowan—walk me to the corner, I have a sudden craving for a... a
dirty-water pretzel!
Rowan: (Mortified and indignant, backing toward the sidewalk). You know what, Alexandra? Your circle radiates a
deeply objectifying, unsafe energy. I'm leaving you to process my IPA and the
toast—I don't carry physical cash and Venmo perpetuates surveillance
capitalism. Namaste! (Waddles away
at top speed).
Scene II
Alex, Lucy, Brad, and Matteo. Brad lets out a bellowing laugh, unbuttons
his navy blazer, and sprawls into Rowan's vacated chair, rubbing his stomach.
Brad: Ha! So you're into shrink-wrapped
hipsters who dine and dash, huh, Lucy? That's what's wrong with this town—too
many guys on ten-speeds with zero liquidity! (Raises a hand, snapping his fingers toward the bar). Waiter! Bring us another basket of those French
donuts— (Brad turns his head, sees
Matteo approaching with the posture of an Olympian god, and the words catch in
his throat; Brad violently sucks in his gut, holds his breath, and stares hard
at the tablecloth) —two cold
IPAs, and get a clean plate over here for the lady!
Matteo removes the dirty plate with sovereign calm, making Brad look
like a frantic middle manager. While Brad stares at the silverware, Lucy savors
Matteo's profile; the Italian gives her a barely perceptible wink before
heading inside.
Lucy: (Sighing dreamily).
Look at those lats... I mean, I'd love some lattes, Brad!
Alex: (Looking at Brad over her shoulder). I appreciate a man who takes charge, Brad, though
I'll admit I'm a bit jaded today. I was just telling Lucy that American men
simply don't cut it for me anymore. I'm seriously considering relocating to
Paris or Copenhagen; I feel like I need a tall Frenchman or an open-minded Dane.
Brad: (Exhaling y letting his belly drop back out now that Matteo is out of
earshot). Whoa, pump the brakes!
What do you mean American guys don't cut it, princess? Who hurt you?
Alex: Everyone in the tri-state area brags
about their portfolio or their emotional intelligence, but the second you share
an apartment, they don't know how to scrub a pan and expect a medal for taking
out the recycling.
Brad: Hey, don't lump me in with the Brooklyn
Soy Boys! I'm divorced, debt-free, own a townhouse in Hoboken, and I don't play
games. Besides, don't buy that European hype—you think French guys aren't
chauvinists? And Italians and Spaniards are ten times worse! They yell at you
with their hands, Venmo-request you four bucks for a coffee, and expect a
standing ovation because they boiled penne on a Sunday!
Alex: Is that right? And do you wash the
dishes at your townhouse, Brad? What happens after dinner?
Brad: (Puffing out his chest).
Look, sweetheart, let's talk basic economics: if I'm busting my ass sixty hours
a week wrangling union contractors, paying the mortgage, leasing the Escalade,
and covering West Village brunches, I'm sure as hell not putting on yellow
rubber gloves at nine PM to scrub the air fryer! Division of labor: the king
provides the castle, and the queen runs the kitchen. Right, Lucy?
At that exact second, Matteo sets the two IPAs and a fresh basket of
beignets on the table. Brad cuts off mid-sentence, sucks his stomach back in
until his face turns purple, and pretends to inspect the salt shaker with
forensic intensity so he doesn't have to make eye contact with the waiter.
Lucy: (Grabbing a beignet without taking her eyes off the fall of Matteo's
hair). Honestly, if this view
came with the dining room, I'd hand-wash the neighbor's Tupperware.
Brad: (Clutching his sternum with a grimace as soon as Matteo retreats to
his pillar). Oof! Excuse me a
second, ladies—the espresso and that hipster's attitude just triggered my acid
reflux. Let me hit the men's room for a Pepcid and I'll be right back to talk
numbers... I mean, talk about us, Alex. (Drapes his navy blazer over the back of his chair and hurries behind
the wooden screen).
Act Two
Tableau One
The same patio, two minutes later. Brad's blazer hangs on the chair, and
the table is cluttered with beignet baskets, matcha cups, and half-empty pint
glasses. At his station, Matteo polishes a wineglass against the afternoon
light, utterly detached from earthly misery.
Scene I
Alex, Lucy, and Matteo; moments later, Chase enters.
Alex: (Snapping her compact shut with fury). "The queen runs the kitchen"... We just
listened to a Neanderthal with a toll-tag! Cross him off, Lucy. When he comes
out of the bathroom, we'll tell him my gallery partner in Zurich called with an
emergency and bolt.
Lucy: But we haven't even finished the
caramel dip! Plus, look at the time—it's six-thirty. Here comes number three!
*Chase enters. He walks with an easy stride, wearing a fitted black
t-shirt that shows actual gym time, normal jeans, and an open, friendly smile.
Passing the service station, he spots Matteo; for half a second he measures his
own height against the Italian's, clears his throat, straightens his collar,
and steps briskly to the table, ignoring the waiter with sporty dignity. Matteo
arches an amused eyebrow toward Lucy as if to say: "Another one." *
Chase: Hey! Alexandra? I'm Chase. Glad you
snagged an outdoor table—you could smell the brioche and espresso all the way
from Seventh Avenue.
Alex: (Instantly transforming her posture upon seeing a handsome, fit human
being). Chase! Right on time.
Come sit... This is Lucy, my assistant—I mean, my friend. (Chase reaches for Brad's chair and notices the
navy blazer).
Chase: Oh, looks like this seat's taken. Were
you waiting on someone else?
Alex: (On autopilot). No!
Well, yes—that's Lucy's fiancé's blazer. He just stopped by to drop off some
tax forms for her accountant and ducked into the restroom, but he's leaving
right now. Sit right here next to me.
Chase: (Sitting down and smiling warmly at Lucy). Congrats, Lucy! Though judging by the way you
were eyeing that leftover avocado toast, I figured you might offer a guy a bite
before your fiancé gets back.
Lucy: (Stunned that a prospect is actually looking at her like a person
instead of a coat rack). You're
hungry? Take that half with the pickled shallots—it's an orphan! A filmmaker
ordered it right before he fled the scene because he got intimidated by his own
shadow.
Chase: (Laughing out loud and taking a hearty bite of the toast). Let me guess: raw-denim tourniquet pants, canvas
tote bag, and a philosophical objection to picking up the tab? In lower
Manhattan you kick a planter and four of those guys roll out. So what do you do
when you're not guarding phantom blazers, Lucy?
Lucy: (Delighted, resting her chin in her hands). Graphic design, botanical book covers for weird
indie presses, and certified quality-control testing on salted-caramel beignets.
Chase: Get out of here! My firm is designing a
native-plant rooftop garden for an independent publisher over in DUMBO, and
we've been dying to find an illustrator for the flora signage. Man, you're
fun... (Pushes the basket toward
her). High five—the caramel is on
me.
From his pillar, Matteo observes the chemistry between Chase and Lucy
and approves silently, raising his polished wineglass half an inch toward Lucy.
Scene II
Alex watches the exchange boiling with jealousy. She clears her throat
three times, completely ignored by both of them.
Alex: (Cutting in with a shrill voice). Well, Chase! How funny that you bring up landscape architecture,
because last autumn I was strolling through the Jardin du Luxembourg in Paris
and thinking how desperately New York lacks true curatorial rigor...
Chase: (Polite, but keeping his attention on Lucy). Paris is great, Alex, though I'm partial to
Hudson Valley bluestone and wild ferns that don't need a French haircut. Hey, I
got caramel all over my fingers—let me rinse my hands at the washbasin around
the corner, and when I get back you're giving me your card for that DUMBO
project, Lucy. Back in thirty seconds. (Exits
toward the side patio).
The instant Chase disappears behind the ivy, Alex rises halfway out of
her seat and shoots Lucy a lethal glare. Matteo remains motionless at his post
like a marble sphinx, savoring every second of the matinee.
Alex: What the hell do you think you're
doing, Lucy?
Lucy: (Beaming). Me? Eating
free carbs and landing a freelance gig with a man who has actual biceps and
doesn't talk to houseplants!
Alex: Don't play dumb with me—you were
shamelessly flirting with him! Dial your desperation back three notches! Go
with him if you want, but remember that this afternoon is about me, not you.
I'm the one who curated the Hinge algorithm, I'm the one who staked out the
table, and he came here for me!
Lucy: (Slamming her moleskine notebook shut on the iron table). Oh, then put me on payroll with dental, overtime,
and a 401(k) for conducting your interviews, bitch! I didn't know I was your
unpaid gallery intern! I've been sitting here for two hours enduring your Marie
Antoinette delusion, swallowing your lies, and surviving strictly on the
imported architectural views of this patio (gestures subtly toward Matteo) while you trash every guy in the five boroughs. Didn't you say
American men don't measure up and you need a Scandinavian who scrubs skillets
in Swedish?! Well, leave the domestic landscape architect to me, because he
measures up in height, width, and square footage!
Alex: In your dreams! The first guy who
doesn't have acid reflux or spray-on jeans is not getting poached right under
my nose!
Tableau Two
Before Alex can sit back down, Brad emerges from the hallway (wiping his
hands with a paper towel) right alongside Chase (returning from the outdoor
washbasin). At the exact same moment, Rowan creeps back in from the sidewalk,
staring at the ground in search of something. Matteo, seeing the three-train
collision about to occur, picks up the black leather check presenter with quiet
elegance and takes one step forward.
Scene I
Alex, Lucy, Brad, Chase, Rowan, and Matteo.
Brad: (Spotting Chase by the wooden screen). Hey—Chase! From the landscape firm! What are you
doing off the job site?
Chase: (Surprised). Brad! Good
to see you, man. I thought you were out in Queens overseeing the concrete pour?
Rowan: (Stepping up to the table without looking up). Sorry to intrude on your bourgeois consumption,
but I left my Kryptonite bike-lock key under the napkin caddy and— (Looks up and freezes at the sight of Chase and
Brad). Chase?
Chase: Rowan! Well, look at the universe
delivering—you've been ghosting my texts for two years over the eight hundred
bucks I lent you to develop your 16-millimeter short film!
Brad: (Looking back and forth between the two men and the women, doing the
math). Hold on, wait a damn
minute... If Rowan is Lucy's boyfriend who went for a pretzel, what is Chase
doing in my chair?
Chase: What do you mean Rowan is Lucy's
boyfriend? Alexandra just told me Lucy's fiancé owned this navy blazer!
Brad: That's my blazer, pal! And Alexandra
matched with me online to meet for five-thirty drinks!
Rowan: (Outraged). She matched
with you too?! She told me five o'clock sharp because she had angel-investor
contacts for indie cinema!
Chase: And she booked me for six-thirty
claiming she wanted a private consultation for her Chelsea terrace!
All three men turn and stare at Alex. A heavy silence hangs over the
patio.
Scene II
The same. The finale.
Alex: (Sliding her designer sunglasses onto her nose with counterfeit
imperial dignity). Gentlemen,
please—let's not turn a simple calendar optimization into a provincial
melodrama. In London and Copenhagen, in-person micro-dating is the most
civilized way to vet candidates without wasting an entire Saturday.
Brad: (Snatching his blazer off the chair). Micro-dating my ass! This is a rigged bidding war!
Lucy: (Standing up and holding her notebook aloft like a royal herald). And wait till you hear the official minutes from
the Secretary General! (Reads
aloud). Candidate One, Rowan:
disqualified for being a freeloader, refusing to touch a dirty plate under the
guise of "female spatial intuition," and risking deep-vein thrombosis
in Kyoto denim. Candidate Two, Brad: disqualified for seeking an unpaid
scullery maid and offering heartburn in exchange for a leased Escalade. And the
Chairwoman of the Committee, Alexandra: disqualified for exploiting her best
friend, sabotaging herself, and hunting for a European prince with her eyes
glued shut!
Rowan: (Grabbing his bike key from the caddy, avoiding Matteo's gaze as he
backs away). I am removing myself
from this toxic, patriarchal tribunal. And don't look at me for the check—my
participation was strictly a socio-political performance. (Scurries off down the sidewalk).
Brad: I'm sure as hell not bankrolling a
fraudulent audition either! Have fun splitting six beignets, four craft beers,
and three orders of avocado toast. Good luck getting the Prime Minister of
Denmark to Venmo you! (Storms off
without looking at the waiter).
Alex: (Staring in horror at the mountain of dirty ceramics). Hey, don't be vulgar! (Turns to Chase with her most seductive smile). Chase... thank goodness you're a real gentleman
and wouldn't dream of leaving a woman stranded with this mess, right?
Chase: (Calmly pulling out his wallet and dropping three crisp twenty-dollar
bills onto the table). Of course
I'm a gentleman, Alexandra. Right here is the exact total for the avocado
toast, the beignets, and the drinks Lucy and I had, plus twenty percent for the
waiter. As for your other two contestants and your imported sparkling water...
I'll leave that to you so you can practice horizontal financial equality. (Offers his arm to Lucy). Shall we go grab a mezcal Negroni down on
Bleecker Street, official illustrator?
Lucy: (Looping her arm through Chase's with a grin from ear to ear). Twist my arm, architect! (As they pass the pillar, Lucy taps two fingers to
her temple in a crisp military salute to Matteo, thanking him for two hours of
visual and moral life support; Matteo inclines his head with a warm,
gentlemanly smile). Consider my
resignation effective immediately, babe! If the tall Frenchman shows up, tell
him to bring dish soap!
Chase and Lucy exit laughing toward the avenue. Alex is left completely
alone amidst the graveyard of dirty mugs. Slowly, Matteo walks over to the
table, opens the black leather check presenter, and sets it gently in front of
her.
Alex: (Still looking down, rummaging through her purse in disgust). Ugh, excuse me, waiter, what an appalling
afternoon—people in this country have zero continental refinement... (She finally lifts her head and locks eyes for the
very first time with Matteo's chiseled face, towering frame, and piercing gaze.
She freezes, her jaw dropping slightly as she slowly removes her sunglasses). Wait... when did you get here?
Matteo: (In a deep, velvety Milanese accent and an icy indifference that
looks down on her from ten stories up). I have been standing two meters away from you since four o'clock, signora.
It's just that from that high up on your ego, it's hard to focus on anyone
wearing an apron.
Alex: (Recovering at lightning speed, smoothing her hair back with a
seductive Chelsea-gallery smile).
You're Italian! God, what a gorgeous accent—I adore Milan, the Brera district,
the Biennale... Listen, it is an absolute crime against aesthetics that you're
waiting tables here; you have the exact bone structure I need for a video
installation I'm curating next month. What's your name? Let's go grab a glass
of natural Barolo when your shift ends and talk about—
Matteo: (Closing the leather check presenter half an inch with one finger,
his expression of aristocratic boredom unchanged). Che
bello. Truly fascinating. But
before you curate contemporary European art, you need to curate an outstanding
balance of two hundred and forty-eight dollars and fifty cents, service not
included. Card, cash... or should I bring the terminal over so we can test if
your credit actually works in this hemisphere?
Alex swallows hard and pulls out three different credit cards, silently
praying to the art gods that one of them clears, while Matteo checks his watch
with sovereign indifference.
Curtain
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