Franco started to spend more and more time at the apartment. When I would come home in the evenings it was dark, quiet like no one was there, but then he’d burst out of her room in a hurry to get his beloved a sandwich before the bars all closed. Beatriz would just lounge in bed waiting. Sometimes he’d pass me at the metro, leaping, bounding down escalator stairs, determined, the passionate lover on his mission. He’d notice me and shoot a helpless, “you know she always asks for a sandwich at the worst time” look. I’d nod back acknowledgeing his plight with a kindly sardonic, “you poor guy” look while I couldn’t help wondering about their relationship. When I’d return home after a morning of teaching the two of them’d just be getting up walking around in their bathrobes. Smoking was confined to the bedroom although the smell was now stronger telling me he was there. “Well, as long as they keep it in the bedroom”. Nope, not going to happen.