The Salt on His Tongue

Leo sat hunched on the edge of the mattress, springs groaning a complaint under his weight. The air in the room was thick with stale smoke and something else, something metallic like old blood, clinging to the ripped wallpaper. Rain hammered the windowpane, a rhythm of the city’s endless, damp misery. He rolled the half-smoked cigarette between his fingers, the ember a dull orange eye in the gloom. His breath fogged in the chill. Two o'clock. Almost time.

On the warped bedside table, tucked beneath a chipped ashtray, was the photo. Not a photo, really, but a torn-out page from some travel magazine, creased and faded from too many touches. It showed a cluster of whitewashed houses clinging to a sheer cliff, sunlight blazing off their terracotta roofs, a patch of impossible blue ocean stretching out forever below. Polignano a Mare, the caption used to say, before it got smudged into oblivion. His mother had kept it in her purse, always, talking about how one day, she’d see it for herself. She never did. But Leo, he looked at it and felt like he’d left a piece of himself there already. A deep, bone-weary yearning for a place he’d never stepped foot in. The salt on his tongue, the warmth of the stone beneath his bare feet. He knew it.

Marco tapped on the door. Three sharp raps. Leo crushed the cigarette, the bitter taste still in his mouth. He slid the photo back under the ashtray. His old man always said, "Don't let 'em see what you care about, son. They'll use it against you." Leo never cared much for his old man's wisdom, but some bits stuck. He stood up, his joints protesting. The worn leather of his jacket felt like a second skin. It was still raining. Always raining.

The plan was simple, or so Marco insisted. Grab the bag from the drop point, a forgotten locker at the bus station, and disappear. Easy money. Only, nothing with Marco was ever easy. The kind of guy who saw ghosts in every shadow, and sometimes, he wasn't wrong. They drove in silence, the beat-up Ford splashing through puddles. The city lights smeared across the wet asphalt, a blur of red and yellow. Leo’s hands gripped the wheel, knuckles white. His stomach twisted, a cold knot tightening with every block they passed.

The bus station was a fluorescent nightmare, echoing with the screech of brakes and hurried announcements no one listened to. Bodies flowed through, a river of people going somewhere, anywhere. Leo tried to blend, a ghost among the living, but he felt like a raw nerve exposed. Locker 314. He found it. The key, warm in his palm, felt heavy, like it held all their futures. He twisted it, the click a gunshot in the stale air. Inside, a canvas duffel bag. Thick. Heavy. He didn't look inside, just snatched it, shoved it under his arm.

That's when the shift happened. Not a big one, not at first. Just a flicker in the periphery. A guy in a dark trench coat, leaning against a pillar, watching. Too still. Leo’s breath hitched. Marco was supposed to be a lookout. Where the hell was he? He gripped the bag tighter, trying to walk casual, but his legs felt like lead. The trench coat guy pushed off the pillar, a subtle movement, but Leo saw it. He picked up his pace. Another guy, by the newsstand. Black hat pulled low. Two.

"Leo!" Marco's voice, a panicked whisper from the restrooms. Too late. The man in the trench coat moved fast, cutting off his path to the exit. Leo shoved him, a desperate, clumsy push, and darted right. The other guy, the one by the newsstand, was already there. Leo saw the glint of metal, a knife. Oh, hell. This wasn’t a snatch-and-grab anymore. This was a shakedown. This was blood.

He didn't think, just reacted. Ducked under the knife, swung the heavy duffel bag. It connected with a sickening thud against the guy's jaw. The man stumbled back, cursing. Leo bolted, a wild animal, pushing through the startled crowd. A woman screamed. A child cried. He heard heavy footsteps behind him, felt a hand graze his shoulder. He spun, throwing an elbow blindly, felt it connect. Keep moving. Get out.

He burst out into the downpour, the cold rain a shock to his overheated skin. His lungs burned, a raw ache in his chest. A black sedan screeched to a halt at the curb. Marco. Finally. Leo yanked the door open, threw himself inside, the duffel bag thudding onto the floor. "Go! Go! Go!" he yelled, his voice hoarse. Marco floored it, tires spitting water and gravel. Leo looked back, saw the trench coat guy standing on the sidewalk, illuminated by the brake lights of passing cars, a dark silhouette against the station's yellow glow. He just watched them go. No pursuit. Just watched. That scared Leo more than the knife.

The car reeked of stale cigarettes and damp dog. Leo slumped back, heart hammering against his ribs, trying to catch his breath. His temple throbbed from where he’d scraped it against something in his desperate escape. He reached for the duffel bag, unzipped it with shaking fingers. Inside, stacks of bills, crisp and green. More than he’d ever seen in one place. Enough. It had to be enough.

He pulled the worn magazine page from his pocket, where he'd stuffed it in his rush. The picture of Polignano a Mare. The sun-drenched houses, the impossible blue. He traced the lines of the cliffs with a bloody thumb. He could almost feel the warmth of the sun on his face, the cool spray of the Mediterranean. He closed his eyes, for a moment, letting the image wash over him, a fleeting promise. He wasn't there yet. The blood on his hands, the throbbing head, the chill of the wet street still clinging to his clothes. But now, maybe, he had a chance. He looked at Marco, whose eyes were fixed on the road, face grim. "Just drive," Leo said, his voice barely a whisper. "Keep driving."