Amara watched her for three seconds.
He got up.
He approached slowly.
“Can I accompany you?” he asked gently.
The woman turned her head. Her eyes were sharp, intelligent, and a grayish-blue. For a moment she seemed as if she would say no. But something in her shoulders gave way.
—I would be very grateful.
—I am Amara.
—Eleanor.
They went down to the asphalt together.
“These traffic lights last less time every year,” Amara said as they walked.
“Because they changed the time two years ago. Nobody consulted anyone over seventy,” Eleanor replied with elegant dryness.
Amara laughed, a genuine laugh that she didn’t remember using that morning.
Upon reaching the other side, Amara held Eleanor’s arm until she was sure it was steady.
—Thank you—said the old woman, looking at her as if she were really seeing her.
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