Her brother was driving. Somewhere after the bridge she stopped talking, wound the window all the way down and leaned out into the wind. I took this from the back seat without looking through the viewfinder. She still says she was asleep.

Tomás owns the café across the square. Four in the afternoon is the only quiet hour he has, and he spends it at the table by the wall, watching his own door.

Cold, he said. Twice.

He mended nets on the harbour wall every morning I was there and never once asked what I was doing. On the last day he looked up and told me to come back in winter, when the light is better.

Waiting for someone who didn't come. She let me wait with her.

A borrowed studio with one north window and a backdrop painted over so many times it had its own weather. Amara sat down to wait while I loaded film, and I made the picture before she knew we had started.