Nine years

“Film still from an independent drama, Kodak 5219 grain. 4 a.m. in a 24-hour diner on Roosevelt Avenue in Jackson Heights, Queens; rain streaks the big front window and the steel of the elevated train blurs outside under pink neon. In a cracked red vinyl booth sits a heavy-set Puerto Rican man in his early seventies, white stubble, deep creases, a faded navy flannel shirt buttoned to the top, a plain navy cap, both hands around a chipped white coffee mug, looking up with hurt and suspicion. Standing at the end of the table, just arrived, is his younger brother in his sixties, thin and stooped, grey moustache, a soaked tan raincoat dripping, eyes lowered. Light: cold overhead fluorescent and warm pink neon spill through the window, a mint-green tiled wall, a glowing pie case behind. Over-the-shoulder two-shot from the counter side, 50mm, f/2.8. Palette: booth red, mint green, neon pink. Real faces: liver spots, pores, wet hair. No readable text.

“Static camera, then a very slow push-in. The seated older man looks up at his brother and says in a low, rough voice with a Puerto Rican New York accent: "Nine years, Tito. And you walk in here like it's Sunday." The standing man swallows, rain dripping off his coat, and answers quietly: "I'm not asking for nothing. Just let me sit down." The seated man holds his gaze for a long moment, then slowly slides over on the red vinyl bench to make room. Sound: rain on the window, a refrigerator hum, a train rumbling past outside, a spoon clinking. No music.