He’s intent on the coffee maker. He’s laid out all the parts on a dishcloth on the kitchen counter. She’s given up on it and is in the little adjoining lounge. Kindle propped up on her knee. She’s not reading; she’s watching him. Every now and then he puts out his hand to hover over a piece, and then folds his arms back across his chest as he rearranges and rotates the parts in his head. She can hear the waves from the open balcony. It would be a perfect view to enjoy with hot coffee.
The night has left a layer of cold over everything – just a tingle across her skin as she sits – and the sun is warming the world gently, unhurried. She wants to make breakfast on the black-iron gas hob, to share it and eat it on the balcony overlooking the bay. But the kitchen is his now. The coffee maker must be fifty years old. Probably every native to Portugal knows how it works, but to these travellers it’s a puzzle.
She would be content to boil the grounds on the stove and pour it through the sieve, but he has to solve it. It’s a challenge. So he frowns over the obsolete parts trying to parse their purpose and make them fit, while she stares out at the foreign country they’re visiting to celebrate getting married.