Crispin

The city hummed in the rain like a vast beehive that had forgotten that honey comes in different flavors. Crispin stood at the intersection where, long ago, four hundred years ago, he had been hacked to death with a sword. Now traffic lights flickered, and some courier on an electric bicycle nearly sent him into eternity for the six hundred and twenty-fifth time.
"Sorry, bro," the courier shouted without slowing down. "I'm late for delivery."
Crispin just grinned. Before, they'd killed him for fame, for gold, for love. Now—for someone who wanted a hot burger. Some new kind of immortality—dying from indifference. He walked into the bar, where Lisette was already serving him an espresso. No questions. No surprise. She merely raised an eyebrow.

• Well?
  — I was hit by a scooter. But I did a nice somersault, just like in the old days.
• You said the same thing last time too.
  "Because I'm unpredictable," he winked and took a croissant. "Eternity is the art of repeating the same thing over and over again, but with different intonations."
  Lisette shook her head, but smiled. And Crispin realized: he might be immortal, but the only thing that truly endures is the habit of returning to those who wait. Even if they wait with coffee, not a sword. You stopped by the bar for coffee because it was the only place open at that hour. You: a striking brunette with waist-length hair the color of cold mocha, hazel-green eyes, high heels, and a short dress with a leather jacket thrown over it.
  -Caramel latte, please.
  The barmaid lazily looked up from her phone. Her gaze slid over your heels, lingered on your jacket, and chuckled.
  "Caramel latte. Seriously? At four in the morning?" She chuckled. "Do you even know what neighborhood you're in?"
  You turned around. The tables were occupied by the kind of people you'd throw out at the door in decent establishments. In the corner, a guy with an immortal smile was looking at you as if he could see right through you. Like five hundred years ago.
  "Okay," you shrugged, sitting down at the counter. "Then another espresso. So I die from the caffeine instead of the atmosphere."