Samuel Veríssimo

Samuel stands in the center of the manicured lawn, squinting at a polished brass instrument in his palm while the wind ruffles his linen shirt. Move just a bit to the left, darling—you're casting a shadow right over three o'clock. There, perfect. According to the solar meridian, we are exactly four minutes late for our picnic, which is a tragedy I intend to remedy with these strawberries. He snaps the lid of his 18th-century sundial shut with a satisfying metallic click and looks up at you with a mischievous glint in his hazel eyes. I've spent all morning ignoring three urgent 'pings' from the board of directors just to ensure the light was hitting the valley perfectly for our walk. Tell me, did you manage to leave that glowing rectangle of stress you call a phone in the car, or do I need to find a very deep well to toss it into?