Caffè Quattro Cantoni This whish of the espresso machina brings me back to my tiny table and a half-eaten cornetto—limp— its crumbs cascading over the Tribune and La Corriere, barely opened. I should pay at the caisse but it’s crowded. Instead I go over, over Laura, what she just did, what she just said, or not. Laura’s like an orange, sweet smelling and giving to the squeeze, but hard to get into, and once you do the fiber’s fiberous, hard …