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I knew him. Of course, I knew him. He was a regular customer. Came almost every day for coffee. Just coffee. Smoked, so he sat outside, even in the rain. Dead of winter. Cold didn't bother him.
He kept to himself. No one ever bothered him. Not the sort you would bother if you knew what was good for you. He sat there, by the railing, tossed the butts into the water. Not good for the environment, that, but I wasn't about to tell him off, was I?
This was a hard man. You could see it in his eyes, when he took off his dark glasses, which wasn't very often. Always impeccably groomed. Nice suits. Good suits, you know. Never a single hair out of place. But hard. Even his features were severe. Sharp. You could have cut bread on his cheekbones. Very severe. Like a warning.
Of course, I saw the marks on his hands. Black tattoos. Very tough guy. I didn't know they meant anything in particular. When I asked my wife about it, she made the sign of the cross and told me not to pry. I figured he had a misspent youth. Don't we all?
He came almost every day. He talked to no one. That's why it was such a shock, the girl.
I knew her too. She was a regular ever since she moved into the room above the drycleaner. She was friendly. Lovely girl, really. It was a shame about the… you know, her eyes. Her face. Discreet about that, though. She always had those big sunglasses on, and a scarf of some sort, so you could hardly see the scars. She was never upsetting to look at. She looked nice.
She always had nice clothes. Charity, I assume. See, she didn't carry herself like a person born with money, although she didn't look as if she would mind having money, and only people with money can afford that sort of style. She was just a little out of date, as if the clothes were passed on after being used by someone else. I assumed there was a patron. Someone she met at a charity thing for the blind or something. Maybe even minor royalty. Ah, people like to tell stories. She would have been a very good looking young woman if it weren't for the thing with her eyes and her face, so people liked to talk. She didn't talk, though. She was friendly enough, but she didn't talk much about herself.
Even though they were out of date, the clothes were always impeccable. I'm sure the drycleaner helped her out. People feel sorry for the unfortunate, you know. They see a young woman, a girl who would have been pretty, her face ruined, eyesight gone… they feel sorry for her. They help her out. I always gave her an extra biscuit with her tea.
She wasn't the begging sort. I don't know if I'd say proud. Well, maybe proud. Not haughty. She was very… nice.
I wish I could have helped her that day. I usually helped her to her table, but Valeria needed me in the kitchen, just for a minute. I had to move a heavy pot. My wife is getting older. If it wasn't for that, I would have been there. By the time I came out, it had already happened. Poor girl.
A man like that does not take such an intrusion lightly.
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