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"Get out of there immediately, take a taxi, we'll meet at the bar near Castel Sant'Angelo, remember?" Manuel asked, sighing. They arrive at the bar at the same time, she gets out of the taxi on foot, heavy-legged, sweaty, the little girl, Mara, asleep in her arms, the bag tightly in her hand, he parked his motorcycle. It was already dark, cars were rushing along the Tiber, Castel Sant'Angelo looked imposing, brightly lit, but it had become gloomy; it was August, extremely hot, you couldn't even breathe, a melancholy was pervasive everywhere. "Who could it be?" She didn't even let him take off his helmet, she rushed at him, suddenly releasing the handle of her bag which fell to the ground, she opened his arms, forcing him to embrace her, he wrapped his arms around her body, around her who was already holding Mara in her arms. Then she pulled back, gripping his wrist tightly; Manuel couldn't undo the helmet's safety. "Wait," she told him.
She continued: "What should I do, Manuel?" Finally, Manuel managed to free himself from the helmet, placing it in the motorcycle's luggage box; the heat had stuck his hair to his forehead, his temples, the back of his neck, sweat was running down, he picked up her bag, hanging it on his arm, took the little girl into his embrace: What a strange sight, a man in a dark shirt and blue pants, holding a sleeping girl in his arms, his head leaning on her shoulder, and a woman's bag swinging and hitting his leg, he embraced her with his free hand, accompanied her to the bar that stayed open all night, opening his shirt collar, suffocating, he opened the door for her, gesturing for her to come inside
