The newspaper seller is sitting inside his kiosk and you can enjoy an early summer heat. There is nobody on the street, but he wants to talk, bring an old green sweater, maybe it's too hot, but does not want to remove it. He wants to sit. It is enough. Think of her daughter, morose, that it did not go to school, he saw the cigarettes in her purse. The fact that perhaps showed them to him on purpose, to make him a reaction, to scold her. The fact that he does not know scold her. Think wife which ultimately is not early risers, who wants to stay in bed, pretending to sleep, but in reality is preparing to want new things, while he gets dressed to go out early, at dawn. It opens the kiosk when the moon has not yet disappeared and the strips of plastic waste bins flapping in the wind. Now they are two in the afternoon, feel the windows of the houses to the sounds of cutlery on plates collide. The newspaper seller wants to sit. It is enough. In quest'edicola of an ancient city in the south, not far from a small railway station, enters a woman dressed in white. Behind us is a man. She is beautiful. Long straight hair, blacks, simple but very well kept. It has an arm cast, the right, the door hung an elegant purple scarf tied around his neck that goes down. Sunglasses resting on his forehead discover a warm look, a serene smile. Its light scent, but that does not invade strikes, spreads between newspapers and magazines of puzzles. The seller looks at it. His gaze may not be discreet, because soon the woman will go, he did not see her again, do not want to miss even a second of his presence. The man behind it, has a sports clothing, eyeglasses, which has just taken off for easier reading the cover of a book. Her face is a bit 'contract, is distracted, as he reads the title of that novel, top man thinks he has seen the day before, drunk, with a bouquet of flowers clutched in right hand trembling, he thinks the story that he told him. She turns to him, touches him with his left hand, calls him because he wants to show the cards, "Compriamone one, send to my sister." The seller sees this gesture with his hand and soul. He smiles for a moment. Would probably be somewhere else, I think if all those years ago had responded differently to the man with the funny blue raincoat, his life would now be different, not in paper walls, waiting for a new fire. The man comes to pay, showing the postcard: "How much do I owe for this?". "Twenty cents ... No wait, they are fifty. " "Ah, excuse me," the man says, "are a bit 'distracted." Seller's smiles, choosing the right moment: "You are too much in love." The woman, who watched while other cards, we turn now to him, smiles and looks at him with kindness, then turned to the man, he still takes the hand, would embrace him, but with his arm in plaster is hard. Then she leans her head to him, bending a corner of his mouth and says all'edicolante: "You are right. You're right. " At that moment I saw the eyes of the seller be slight. Only slightly. Yes, also because I was there, in quell'edicola. And I've seen everything.
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