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The woman at the café table had been stirring her cortado for three minutes straight. Marco noticed because he'd been watching the spoon make its slow circles while pretending to read the same paragraph of his book.
She was crying, he realized. Not the dramatic kind—the silent kind that people do in public, where only the rhythmic stirring gives them away.
He should look away. That's what Barcelona taught you—how to share small spaces without intrusion, how to be alone together. But then she spoke.