Margen
The building site across the street has been shut down since March. By day, the crane is a rusty line against the sky; at night, once the kitchens go dark, it swings slowly round until it stops in front of Andrés's window. Nobody climbs into the cab. He no longer even looks out to check.
He discovered it in April, one sleepless small hour: the hook coming down clean, soundless, to the height of the windowsill. It hung there for a minute, barely swaying, like an open hand. Andrés hung up the first thing he found: his dinner lunchbox, with two croquettes in it. At dawn, the lunchbox was waiting on the sill, empty and washed up.
Since then he hangs up small things. Bread with olive oil. A battery radio. In January, without knowing why, a scarf.
This morning they came to dismantle the crane. Andrés went down to the street with his head low, feeling a little ridiculous. The worker unbolting the cab held out a package without looking at him. “This was inside,” he said. “And the cab has been locked since March.” It was the scarf, folded with care. It smelled of freshly made coffee.