The restaurant is narrow and warm, and the tables are set close together. They take one near the back, away from the door, and the menus arrive in French and German both. The light is lower than it was outside, amber and close, and the sounds of the lake have gone entirely.

The food arrives.

The carafe is empty. Most of the other tables have cleared. They split the bill without discussion and step outside into the Geneva afternoon.

The afternoon light has softened but not gone. They walk without a fixed direction.

They enter a library through a small door with a hand-lettered sign in Romanian above it. Inside, there are narrow shelves, the smell of old paper, a woman at a desk who glances up and returns to her book. Everything on the shelves is in Romanian.

She moves slowly along the nearest shelf, her finger trailing just below the spines without touching them, reading the titles aloud in careful French approximation.

She moves further along the shelf.

The spines, shelf by shelf:
Slavici: Moara cu Noroc, Pădureanca, Povestiri
Caragiale: O scrisoare pierdută, D'ale carnavalului, Dl. Goe, Conu Leonida față cu reacțiunea.
Sadoveanu, taking up half a shelf: Baltagul, Hanul Ancuței, Neamul Șoimăreștilor, Frații Jderi.
Rebreanu: Ion, Răscoala, Pădurea Spânzuraților.
Camil Petrescu: Ultima noapte de dragoste, întâia noapte de război; Patul lui Procust.
Călinescu: Enigma Otiliei.
Creangă: Amintiri din copilărie, Harap-Alb.
A shelf of poetry: Eminescu, Arghezi, Blaga, Nichita Stănescu.
At the end, newer spines: Marin Preda, Moromeții. Mircea Cărtărescu, Solenoid.

She pulls Răscoala from the shelf carefully, opens it to first page, and reads aloud, slowly.

They step back outside into the afternoon.

The afternoon has gone softer. They have crossed the bridge, the lake behind them now, the city climbing upward. Parc des Bastions opens to their left: plane trees, a gravel path, and further along, the chessboards. The pieces are enormous, pale stone, one game in progress with no players visible.

She steps in and he closes his arms around her. The chess game stays unresolved behind them. Somewhere further along the park a child shouts. The plane trees hold the light.

They stay like that for a while. The light in the park has shifted, the plane trees longer in their shadows. The abandoned chess game sits behind them, white about to lose.

The afternoon is now darker after everything. They are both walking on the street without a particular direction.

They walk in silence for a while, his arm still around her shoulders.

After a few tens of minutes, they reach Parc La Grange as the light over the lake has gone darker. The grass slopes gently toward the water, and they find a place on the hill, sitting first, then lying back, the lake spread out below them and the Alps faint at the far edge.

She takes out her phone first and hands it to him. He types his number and hands it back. She calls it once so he has hers. His phone buzzes for a few seconds.

He hesitantly turns his head slowly toward her. She stays still, then turns slightly to meet it. The kiss lands at the edge of her cheek. She stays there for a moment before settling back, both of them looking at the lake again. Neither of them says anything for a while.

She settles into it without pulling away. Eventually, they have been lying there long enough that the city has receded and what remains is the water and their own breath.

They walk back through the city as the sun sets.

In the very late evening, the city is now quieter as streets near the lake have emptied. They are walking toward Cornavin in sparse steps.

Cornavin is quiet with a hollowed out main hall. They stop in front of one of the automated counters, the screen casting a pale light.

They board the train, the carriage nearly empty and their two seats side by side at the window. The doors close behind them and she settles alongside him, leaning her head against his shoulder. He does not move as the platform begins to slide away, the lights of Cornavin and Geneva thinning out into the dark.