Emily turns over and stretches. She loosens the weight of sleep from her body, rising into full wakefulness. Her eyes open. In the fresh morning light, the green walls gleam like river water. On the nightstand is a note. She pushes the covers back and reaches over, unfolding the paper. She tilts it beneath a thin beam of sun, squinting at the brightness of the paper.

Meet me at last night’s cantina for breakfast. I’ll wait.

She sits up and swings her legs over the edge of the bed, wincing at the cool touch of the floor. The room smells like dust and cotton and a lingering trace of sweat. She gets up, walks over to the window, and draws back the heavy green curtains.

The view looks over a jumble of terracotta roofs toward the harbor. Clouds are disintegrating out of the sky. The water is calm, the color of gunmetal. Emily stands by the sill, pulling the puddle of skirt up over her knees. Misty sunlight falls over the white buildings. She knots the drawstring at her waist, nudges her feet into a pair of sandals, bends down to snatch her blouse off the floor. She wanders into the bathroom, pulling it over her head. The thin material falls down around her belly. She slips a hand beneath, rubbing her navel.

The bathroom is small. Cold water gushes out of the tap. It smells volcanic. She watches her face in the round mirror as she brushes her hair. She ties it up in a ponytail and thinks about getting it cut.

Emily wraps herself in a woolen shawl and opens her door, slipping out, moving through the hotel like a ghost. Her footsteps fall softened in hallways gravid with shadow and light. When she steps into the street, the pavement feels uncertain; the last vestiges of the sea cling to the soles of her feet.

Several doors down, an old woman sits on her stoop. From a dark blue house she sells flowers out of big white recycled buckets. The sun is warm. Emily shivers inside her thin cotton blouse. She pauses next to a bucket of tangled red carnations and the wind blows up off the bay, carrying the damp chill of the water. Overhead the thin clouds fall to tatters. Emily pulls her shawl tighter around her shoulders. The old woman looks up at her. Emily smiles, struggling to remember her handful of Portuguese words.

“Bom dia.”

Emily’s feet shift. She glances around and bobs her head. “Bom dia. Como é você?”

“Eu so muito bem.” The woman’s headscarf matches the deep blue painted trim. Her face is creased with a lifetime of squinting. A loose pile of gray knitting sits in her lap. Her weathered, dexterous fingers click the needles. “Obrigado.”

Emily squats and reaches forward, untangling a single carnation from the bunch. The long stem drips onto the pavement. “Quanto custa?”

“You speak like a native. Wow.”

The man’s voice hits her. It is a blow, a sudden thing that brushes up against her equilibrium, and her guts shift around to accommodate the sinking strangeness, the newness, and to absorb the shock of its intrusion: these are Massachusetts vowels, but they are dressed in a different pitch. Emily stands up. She turns toward the owner of the voice as her hand sinks, her stomach quivering, the long-stemmed flower held at an angle across her waist.

She takes a step back. “How do you know I’m not a native?”

He shrugs. He’s wearing baggy jeans, a thick oatmeal-colored sweater, and black sport sandals. His face is good-looking in a way that makes her think of a long history of rugged winters. It’s pale, with rugged bones and dark blond hair cut short. His mouth slants to one side, flushed pink in the raw air, and his complexion is the type to turn ruddy in the cold. His forearms look strong. His hands are balled up, stuffed deep into his pockets.

“I don’t.” He grins, the expression on his face opening up. “I just guessed.”

Looking at him, at his strong white teeth, the corners of his mouth pull back, filling Emily with a disorienting burst of spontaneity.

“You stand like an American.” He chuckles. “It’s a stupid line, I know. Seriously, I was wondering how well you know the town, if you in fact know the town at all. I think…” He shrugs. “Well, okay, I’ll come clean.” He tilts his face and looks up. His mouth quirks, giving a brief flash of that brilliant smile. “I’m pretty sure I’m lost. I feel like I’ve been walking in circles.”

Emily’s attention wanders down the street, over the different colors of the houses. “What are you looking for?”

He looks at the old woman, glances at Emily’s profile, and withdraws a coin from his pocket. Their hands meet over a bunch of bright blossoms and the old woman slips it from his fingers with a nod, tucking it into the little purse at her waist.

“My hotel,” he says. “I’ve only been here a couple days and all the buildings look the same to me.”

“That isn’t surprising. I can see how that might happen.” Emily looks him in the eyes, moving a loose strand of hair out of her face. “I haven’t been here very long myself, so it’s probably going to be a case of the blind leading the blind, but I’ll do my best.” Their color makes her think of the place where sky meets the open water: hazy, dark, changeable. Their corners crinkle. That hot feeling, the disorientation, rises into her like a swarm of bees. “Where are you staying?”

“At the Casado Rosário?”

“You’re not lost. Just keep heading up and you’ll see it.” She bends over and tucks the flower back into its bucket. “That’s where I’m staying, too.”

The man watches her. “It’s okay. I paid for it.”

Emily turns her head. “What?”

“The flower.” He nods toward the bucket. “Just call it a thank you.”

“All right.” She breaks off the stem. With a confused little smile, she reaches behind her head and tucks the scarlet bloom into her ponytail. “I will.”

“What’s your name?”

“Emily.”

He holds out his hand. She takes it. His hand is strong, the fingers warm.

“Jason. Pleased to meet you.” He nods toward her hair. “It’s a good look for you.” He grins. “I like it.”

She reaches up and her fingertips graze the petals. “Thank you.”

His attention crawls over her skin like butterflies, something fluttering, soft legs tickling. She rubs her hands on her forearms. He tucks his hands back into his pockets. “Sure is cold here in the mornings.”

Emily looks at him sidelong. She nods. “It is.”

“Had breakfast yet?”

“Uh, no.” She wraps her hands in the edges of her shawl. “I’m on my way there now, actually.”

“If you haven’t been there yet, there’s this little cantina down the road.” Jason’s body turns toward the bay. His shoulders hunch into the wind. “Francisco’s, I think it’s called? The frittatas are out of this world.” The smile returns but its hemmed-in, self-conscious. “You should try one. The coffee’s pretty good, too.”

“Yeah, I…um, I ate there last night, actually,” she says. “I had beef stew and sangria. The white sangria.” Her weight tips toward him. “It was really good.”

“Yeah?” The smile returns, full-bore.

Emily’s stomach drops. Her head turns toward the water. She keeps him in the corner of her vision. The cool edge of the wind slides across her hot skin. “I need to get going,” she says. “I…I’m really hungry and a little…” She turns, looks at him, and tilts her hand back and in a comme ci comme ca gesture. “I guess shaky with it?” She chuckles, tucking back errant stands of hair with both hands. Thanks for the flower.” She wraps her hands in the edges of the shawl. “It was nice meeting you.”

“All right.” He shrugs. “We’ll probably run into each other again. This place isn’t very big, you know?”

“Yeah,” she says. “It isn’t.”

He looks at her, weight shifting from foot to foot. He glances down, squints into the sun. “So I guess I’ll see you around.”

One foot crosses over the other, a step languid with cold. Her smile flickers in and out of secrecy and awkwardness. She nods. “I think so.”

A look comes over his face. He takes a step forward. “Do you want to meet up later? Maybe for lunch or something? Look, I’m here by myself, and it would be nice to hang out with another American.” He holds his hands up. “It’s not…you know, like a…I’m not trying to…I don’t mean like a date. I mean just…” He starts to laugh. “I don’t know what I mean. I mean friendship. Good times. That’s all.”

“I’m not here alone. I’ll have to talk with my companion about it.” She stands below him on the street. “I don’t know what he’ll think.”

“I understand. No problem.” Jason shakes his head. “Forget I mentioned it.”

“Why?”

“Well, if you’re married, or with your boyfriend, I’m not looking for any awkwardness.” He shrugs. “Third wheel. Don’t want to go there.”

“But if we meet up by chance in a restaurant somewhere,” Emily goes on, a humid smile settling into her face, spreading out to her edges, “come over to our table and say hello.”

“Okay.” He holds her gaze for a moment and then lets it drop. He smiles toward the horizon. “If I see you, I will do that.”

“Goodbye.”

Emily lowers her head and walks away. She feels his eyes on her, warm, and the land murmurs up through her sandals, whispering its secrets to her bones.

Like flower petals, tossed on the wind and carried ahead of her, strewing her path with fragrance and tenderness: “Have a nice day, Emily.”