Ara. The name was unusual; he wouldn’t have recognised her otherwise. If she’d walked past him in the street, even if she’d been sitting opposite him in the café and he’d had time to study her, he probably wouldn’t have guessed. He was at his usual table, taking coffee, reading, watching the gulets dock in the harbour and unload passengers. It was still hot, his sleeves were rolled, but the town dogs were no longer collapsed in the shade – they were up and wandering. End of season, everything had slowed, and there was a sense of recovery, exhalation almost. He didn’t care for summers now; each year the town’s capacity felt breached. Loud music on the beach platforms, expensive drinks. The proposed airport had been halted, but more people kept arriving regardless.
He was waiting for Eymen, as usual. They were supposed to discuss profits, tax, new ideas for the company, cider import, stonecrop export. Every Wednesday, the same. Eymen would arrive late, sweating, breathless, and would tease him for drinking espresso. You’re the late one, old wolf. When are you going to arrive home? If he’d been fiddling with his notebook and pencil he would put them away before they were seen and commented on.
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