Observations of a man in the piazza

He must be waiting for someone and they must be late. He looks at the church, at his watch, scans the piazza, back at the church, and then at his watch again. Clearly, they should be here by now. The camera around his neck has already captured every worthwhile image in this corner of Florence so there is nothing to do but wait. He checks his watch again. A minute late anywhere else is annoying. A wasted minute in Florence is a tragedy. The guide book in his lap, jostled by an anxiously bouncing leg, reminds him of all the things he isn’t seeing. The brown leather shoes he wears were packed for walking, not for waiting. His green trousers and kaki polo says he spent too long picking out the perfect outfit for his Italian debut. The watch on his left hand says they are late. He looks like he is ready to cry or explode, I can’t tell which, when he abruptly stands. Maybe he sees them. Maybe he is giving up, but I look again and he is gone.