"Come."

     They are seated with ease, the woman not saying anything, her Americanness is cloaked with just a few of his native words. An outside table, water, lunch.

     "Is there a menu?"

     He points to the board and she squints at it.

     "Okay. I know nothing. What are you having?"

     "Trippa."

     "Okay. I'll have the same."

The dishes come steaming in a red sauce and the thief wastes no time in diving in. She watches apprehensively then does the same, muttering to herself; good thing I'm not vegetarian, huh?

     He finishes first. "It is good?"

     In response, she lifts her plate and licks it. "What was it?"

     He laughs. "Cow stomach."

     "Huh. And you promised me pasta."

He smiles as she looks down the street. Silence settles between them.

     "So, what now?" All at once, she seems nervous, picking at her t-shirt and biting her nails.

     "Pay?"

     She shakes her head.

     "Caffe?"

     "No."

     He scratches the back of his neck. "Wine?"

     "Ah, yes. S', s'!"

They drink it slow. The taste is dark, dry, nearly bitter. Outside the day passes in a clockwork of sunlight and shadows. Scooters zip down the street like flies. The thief regards the woman, her long hair a torrent of black framing dark, still eyes. A wide-cut mouth, thin and smirking.

     "I didn't ask your name," he says.

"Jude. And you?"

     He laughs then looks away.

     "You know it's far less mysterious to make up a name than it is to ignore the question."

     "Who would like to be less mysterious?"

     She smiles slyly. "Good point."

As the wine works its way into their cogs and coils, the conversation warms. Their limbs relax; shoulders fall forward, elbows find tables and legs stretch out to touch the curb. Jude has a sharp manner, quick-witted like she needs to get in first before someone says something terrible. She's not a babbler, they sit quietly as often as they talk, but with the wine running thicker in her veins, the thief's short questions begin to return longer answers.

 "And what is Brooklyn like?" he asks.

     "Shit, real shit, apart from where it's not, then it's cool," she stops to take another drag of her third cigarette, "I guess I mean, it's nice if you move there. Not so much if you're born there".

     He nods. "And you were born?"

     "Yeah, but I'm in the nice bit now."

     "Yet you stress?"

     "Huh?"

     He points to one of her bloody nails, bitten to the pulp.

"Yes I'm always, a bit, jittery, I guess. I don't even notice I'm doing it." Her foot begins to tap under the table. "I've done some...challenging things. High-pressure job, high-pressure friends, high-pressure marriage, that kind of thing."

     He smiles. "You are married? That is nice."

     "Ha!" She drowns her wine. "Not anymore."

     "No?"

     "No."

     "What did he do?"