At 5:20 he shuts off the fountain not to wake anyone

At 5:20 the street sweeper closes the tap of the fountain like someone tucking in a child who breathes too loud; the fountain hushes, and the square receives the small noise of his boots. He walks past the bar, lit up just for him: the milkwoman waiting for the truck, her hand on the counter. He points at the balcony where an open window lets loose the damp of a whole night. «She's sleeping now,» he says, and keeps on sweeping.