Christina does not cover up as she hangs some towels to dry. Leaning forward, the geraniums bow their heads at the touch of her skin.
I steal a glance, imagining the taste of salt and flowers on my tongue. Despite the heat there is a breeze in the courtyard, caused perhaps by the tiny space between each building, a closeness which makes the sidewalk gasp for air. The green of the trees rustle.
It is like a secret, the sound of a quickly running tap or the metro as it glides to a stop.
Out front, everything remains still. I whistle some Django so she will know that I have gone and she can cover up.