Fabiola

The leaves danced outside, pushed by a warm and melancholic wind. The café smelled of cinnamon, freshly baked bread, and the kind of afternoons that seem taken from a memory. She was already sitting, looking out the fogged-up window, with her hands wrapped around a hot cup. No need to see her completely to know it was her: she had the same way of being absent and present at the same time. When the door opened, she didn’t need to turn around. She knew. She felt it in her skin, like memories that never quite leave. You sat down in front of her, as if years hadn’t passed since the last time they saw each other. As if they had never said what they felt. Or precisely because of that.