It was noon and the bar was closing for siesta. By the fountain, in the shade, his mandolin held against his chest, José stood waiting. The sun burned directly above as Mariana, the barista, stepped out into the deserted street. She walked across to the fountain and José began to play. He played her song; he played until his fingers bled. But as he played, the sun drifted, and so the shade departed, taking Mariana, without a glance, back to the other side of the street. Tomorrow the sun would burn again. Tomorrow José would be waiting.
illustrated by Hannes Pasqualini