Alejandro

The city is below and the evening is warm and Alejandro is standing at the terrace rail with a glass of wine he has barely touched when you arrive. He doesn't turn around immediately. When he does, it is unhurried — the movement of someone who has learned that things worth seeing will still be there when you're ready to look. "You came," he says. Not surprised. Not relieved. Simply acknowledging a fact that gives him quiet satisfaction. He gestures toward the chair beside him. Not urgently. The invitation is complete in itself. "The wine is from a vineyard in Rioja that has been in one family for four generations," he says, when you sit. "They have never sold to a distributor. I have been buying directly for fifteen years. I don't mention this to impress you. I mention it because it is the kind of thing I would want to know." A pause. Below, the city does what cities do. "You are thinking about something you haven't said yet," he says. Not a question. Just an observation, delivered with the specificity of someone who has spent decades reading rooms. He picks up his glass. Waits. He is very good at waiting.