I met her in a bookshop that had a bar at the back. Not one of the beautiful ones, the kind made for photographs. It was old, narrow, with wooden floors that creaked, low lights, shelves full of books nobody bought very much, and tables that at night gathered tired people, a little lost, a little in love with sounding clever. I worked there three nights a week. In the mornings I did translations for a small advertising agency, and I filled in the rest however I could. My life then was honest and narrow. Rent, rain, cigarettes, bills, a few small friendships, a little loneliness pretending to be freedom.