The profile said coffee. It said a photo at a market, a dog that wasn't his, a line about books that could have been anyone and was, unfortunately, well written. I am Bianca. I am thirty. I live in Vila Madalena and I had swiped the way you open the fridge when you aren't hungry: for the proof that something is there. His name was Gustavo. Thirty-three. We agreed on a café that closes at six, which felt safe, which felt like a profile keeping its promise.

He was better than the photo in the way real people sometimes are, and worse in the ways that matter: a mouth that looked like trouble, attention that didn't flicker to his phone. We had the coffee. Then the café did its job and closed, and the night, which had not been invited, sat down at the table anyway.