Seconds

The first time I met him, he was sitting in one of the city center cafés, speaking animatedly to a stout man sitting across from him. Three rolls of green velvet rested on the table beside an empty espresso cup, a half-filled glass of red liquid, and a ceramic bowl overflowing with salted peanutsThe stout man was smoking a vanilla-scented cigar, taking rather loud puffs and scratching his prominent belly over a thin-striped blue shirt. If he had long mustaches, he probably would have twirled them between his fingers. He seemed to belong to a bygone era, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if, at any moment, a carriage had pulled up and he had climbed inside, vanishing in a cloud of dust. But I was fairly certain it was still 2008 because, as he spoke, the other man was rapidly typing on a black Blackberry, jotting down notes with a Bic pen on scattered sheets of paper pulled from a manila folder.

I was sitting behind them, slightly to the right, observing the surreal scene through occasional puffs of dense, fragrant smoke.

I realized the stout man was a watch salesman when he grabbed one of the velvet rolls and, with a swift flick of his wrist, unrolled it onto the table, bursting into a loud, coarse laugh—the reason for which I never understood. I watched the other man stand up to take a few photos, sit back down, and jot down more notes.

The stout man grabbed a handful of peanuts with his right hand and, in an ungraceful manner, tilted his head back to swallow them.

I watched him chew, talk, and smoke all at once—a character out of sync, perfect in his mediocrity.

The other man, elegant and composed, didn’t hide the amused glint in his eyes as he observed his companion. Despite the obvious social contrast between them, he seemed quite at ease.

I watched them for a while, secure in my diagonal vantage point between the tables, certain of my anonymity. The stout man didn’t notice me, too absorbed in what seemed to be a negotiation. The elegant man, on the other hand, would have had to turn around to see me—and thankfully, he never had to.

So, intrigued yet unnoticed, I studied the stout man’s muddied dental arch as he cyclically scooped up more peanuts, chewed them, swallowed, and repeated the inelegant head-tilting gesture with each mouthful.

I sketched them.

In late autumn, when the air wasn’t too cold and the sun brightened the brief afternoon hours, I liked to sit at a café table, order a hot tea, and capture on paper whatever the day had to offer. I wasn’t nosy, but the conversations I overheard helped me refine the contours of a scene, focus on details I hadn’t noticed, give them deeper meaning—bring them to life.

I traced lines and softened shades, present in their conversation but absent beyond that little cutout of the world.

Then, suddenly, the stout man stuffed peanuts into his mouth one last time, stopped laughing, and stopped paying attention to his companion’s words.

I watched as his eyes bulged, his hands clutched at his throat, and he pounded his chest with a fist. He tried to rise from his chair, only to collapse back into it as if swallowed whole.

I saw the elegant man spring to his feet in panic.

And I saw myself stand up abruptly, rush behind the stout man, summon every ounce of strength in my body, and deliver a forceful blow to his back—until, finally, I glimpsed a peanut projectile shoot from his mouth and land squarely on the elegant man’s gray sweater.

Seconds.

Just seconds—to save, perhaps, the life of a stranger.

Seconds—to realize the stout man was breathing again.

I think I lost my balance from the effort and fear, collapsing to the ground the moment the adrenaline wore off. In this reconstructed memory, I see myself sprawled on the floor, skirt hiked up to my thighs, tights torn—bought just the day before.

The standing man rushed inside the café to get a glass of water.

More seconds.

When he returned, he urged the stout man to drink in small sips, to regain his breath, his color, his calm.

And for the first time, he saw me—collapsed on the floor, crying in fear, mascara running down my cheeks.

He crouched down to my level, said thank you, added something about me saving his brother’s life, and asked for my name.

“Aria,” I whispered.

He helped me up, and once I was on my feet, I found myself wrapped in a strong embrace that smelled of vanilla.

The almost-dead man wouldn’t stop thanking me—moved, grateful to still be among us.

Apparently, still in the land of the living.