It had been a leaden, rainy Sunday, as gray as a Berlin winter, matching Sílvia’s mood; she had barely said two words all day. César had never been too good with sick people and he preferred to be left alone when he wasn’t well. So when Sílvia rejected his attempts at conversation, claiming she was coming down with the flu, he gave her a kiss on her singularly icy brow and advised her to go to bed. It was no wonder she was getting sick, bearing in mind the tension of the last few days. Faithful to his role and with nothing better to do, he’d stayed at Sílvia’s the whole evening, snoozing in front of the TV, trying little by little to appropriate this space that would also be his in a few months. They were alone: Pol had gone to a friend’s house, and it appeared Emma was also studying with a friend. César never asked about them and was happy to have the sitting room to himself. In the middle of the afternoon Sílvia got up, although it was obvious she didn’t feel any better.
