Old things

[Seven]

Seven checked his wallet as he walked. It was that time of day that gave him pause. It only lasted a minute, but he separated himself from the midst of the crowd and flicked through some private-projection screens. After viewing the information, he took a deep breath and looked around. There was a café nearby, and he would partake fika with his memories. The ritual was common around the world. The Mediterranean coast called it siesta. The Italians came to a grinding halt in the afternoon to the tune of riposo. The Americans called it happy hour, and while happy, the hour was far from relaxing. To Seven, the reprieve was fika, and to all, it was meant to be shared with friends or loved ones.

He approached the hostess, smiling when she looked up. She had a pleasant face rimmed with auburn hair. She blinked a few times when she looked at him, and Seven dipped his head slightly, flattered.
“One please,” he asked. Her expression softened.

“I’m so sorry, sir. There are no more unattended tables. There is another gentleman seated alone. If you don’t mind?”

He peered around her shoulder, finding couples or triads all seated close together. Indeed, there was a gentleman with dark hair and quiet countenance taking coffee. Seven was accustomed to the outcome, and did not mind sharing a table so long as…

He thanked the hostess and made his way over.
“Would you mind?” he asked the gentleman, gesturing to the empty seat.