Tram 28 – Part 2: The Best View

Inês sat in the driver's bench beside him, her knees touching the cold brass of the controls. Through the front window the hill fell away in a silent cascade of rooftops, the river a dark ribbon beyond.

"There," said Rui. "Every light in the city is out. You can see the stars over the Tagus."

They were thick and sudden, scattered over the water. Inês let out a breath.

"I have lived here eleven years and never seen that."

"You need the dark," said Rui. "Most things are like that."

He had brought a flask, as he always did, and he poured her a small cup of sweet coffee. It was hot and tasted of cinnamon. Their fingers brushed as she took it, and neither of them moved away.

"Can I ask you something?" said Rui.

"Yes."

"May I kiss you? I have wanted to since March."

"March!" Inês laughed. "You have been very patient."

"It is a slow tram."

"Yes," she said. "And if I say stop, you must drive me all the way to the end of the line and back, singing."

"That is a dreadful punishment," said Rui, and leaned in.

He kissed her gently, one warm hand rising to cup her jaw, tasting of coffee and cinnamon. It was slow and unhurried, a question and its answer, the torch flickering over the brass and the stars wheeling above the silent river. The tram creaked softly on its rails, and somewhere below, a dog barked and stopped.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" he asked.

"Green," said Inês. "Very green."

With a hum and a rattle, the lights came back on across the whole city, all at once, like a hundred small windows opening. They both looked out and then at each other.

"Home?" said Rui.

"The end of the line," said Inês. "And back. Slowly."

He rang the bell, and the old tram began to climb.

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