Barcelona in the morning was everything she had seen from the hotel window at night and more.
Enzo walked beside her through it with his hands in his pockets and his sunglasses on and the easy unhurried energy of a man who knew where he was going and was in no particular rush to get there. He told her things — about the architecture, about the history of the streets they walked through, about the market and the cathedral and the specific way the light fell on certain buildings at certain times of day.
He spoke about it the way he spoke about documents he found genuinely interesting — with precision and without performance, the information offered because it was worth knowing and not because he needed her to think well of him for knowing it.
She listened to all of it.
She also looked at
