Open the door and go inside. It is tiny and warm, stuffy but clean.
See those windows with the balcony up there? I ask. I live above those.
Throw yourself on the ancient bed, small as a mouse and creaky. Pour a glass of cheap wine into a jelly jar and kick your shoes off into the corner.
It is quiet, no? And still. Except for the humm of the groups down below in the square, chattering at the cafes and gossiping at bars.
No matter how many times you close your eyes it is still there.
not even candle flame,
can be as sweet as this.