Five
The cars behind honk endlessly, drivers cursing as they try to pass.
Mónica walks along the sidewalk as if nothing is happening, her characteristic distracted gait, a black briefcase in one hand and a bag hugged in the other.
“Hey! Mónica!” Sam shouts, honking relentlessly, almost sticking his head out the window.
Mónica stops abruptly, steps into the least crowded corner, and waits. Sam parks and gets out at full speed.
This time, I stay in the car, arms crossed, watching from a distance.
“Problems in paradise?” Mark asks from the back seat.