He couldn’t sleep that night. The image of Lupita, alone in the rain, kept haunting him. Nor did the way she had said thank you, without humiliation. As if misery had taken everything from her but her soul.
The next morning he returned to the hotel.
Lupita had already bathed and was wearing a simple dress that someone had lent her. Without the dirt on her face, she looked much younger. Maybe thirty-five. She was beautiful in a serene way, with an ancient sadness in her eyes.
They went downstairs for breakfast.
Alejandro watched her use the cutlery with elegance, eat slowly, and ask permission before having another cup of coffee.
“You weren’t born on the street,” he finally said.
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