Adà left her bag on the entrance table and, with her heels clicking on the wooden floor, moved towards the balcony door, which the painter had deliberately left open to air out the house. She pushed the shutters to let in light – she needed the light; she liked it – but one of the panels, the right one, was rotten and stubbornly jammed in the worn mosaic of the balcony. She applied force, lifted it, and with both hands, leaned it folded to the side until it rested against the wall, hearing the hinges complain and resist her. She had to fix it. And see what other repairs the house might need. She would call a handyman tomorrow morning, first thing. No, Monday.
She sighed, blinked her eyes, and leaned over the freshly painted bars. Down below, the street was empty. And it was such a beautiful street. She loved Fokionos Négri. And from here, from the fourth floor, at the corner of Fokionos Négri and Drosopoulou, she could see the best part of it. And the busiest. Fifty steps away was Selekt. Whenever she wanted, she could run over for a pastry. Or a soft drink. Or whatever her soul longed for. It wasn’t a big expense, right? And truly, everyone was there. Everyone. All of Athens.