The Tuesday before December he came to the bakery street at six fifty-eight as he always did.
Two coffees. Milk in mine. The morning slightly cooler than it had been.
We walked.
This was the Tuesday before the Marciano dinner. Three days before the event. I was at the point in event preparation where everything that needed to be done had been done and the remaining work was the mental kind, the running through of contingencies and the preparation for the things that could not be planned for.
I was also twenty-three weeks pregnant.
Sofia was moving with an opinion about everything now. The morning walk. The arroz caldo. The specific songs that played on the market radio that she responded to by moving and the ones she did not respond to at all, which told me more about her personality
