She’s just as beautiful as back then, as if we were still fifteen or sixteen, no, she was thirteen, and somehow she still has a part of back then inside her, and I look at all the lights and talk about this and that. She says something and I say, ‘Yeah, that’s right,’ and then we’re silent for a while and keep walking until she stops outside one of those posh bars with fancy cocktails and fancy people, and she says, ‘Here.’ I go to open the door for her but she’s quicker, and I walk inside ahead of her. I look over to the bar and across the half-dark room, and I feel her standing behind me, and I walk over to one of the small tables. We sit down. At the bar and at the other tables, women and men are sitting in the twilight drinking brightly-coloured cocktails or coffee out of big round cups with no handles. I take a brief look at her; she’s reading the menu and I watch her hand moving slowly across the paper. I look at her face, and her lips are moving very slowly too, lots of pretty cocktails with brightly coloured straws and little umbrellas and coffee in big round cups with no handles.
