I cross the avenue and look in. I see a mahogany bar and small, round tabletops. There is no one in sight.
I try the door; it opens. I enter, and take a seat.
From my table I can see the park opposite, with its careful beds of colour, its gravelled paths and ornamental fountains.
As I wait, I watch light enter through the deco windows that overlook the colonnade. I watch greens and reds and blues from the stained glass play across the black and white tiling on the floor. They meddle with its orderly geometry.
I glance up and see a woman standing behind the bar. I have not been aware of her. She wears a pressed white shirt, a long black apron tied tight about her waist.
Cafecito, por favor.
When she serves me I notice her hands.