I could hear the dirt crumble under the heavy pot of plants scraping the balcony floor above ours. Their siestas are over and a truck is rumbling while parked along the street. The curtains are yellow and red, I translated a song yesterday and showed a funny picture at the dinner table, cried at the thought of ascending up the stairs and then descending midway, questioning to eat a peach, and I quietly told Maria buenas noches after talking to her on this couch, smiling at how cozy and tired she looked in her glasses, black night dress, and loose white robe. Sometimes I talk to her about the little things, about her lentil soup and some words I don't know how to conjugate, just to hear her Spanish, motherly voice. I fall asleep with shadows of my clothes hanging on the line outside my window, and I wake up the next morning to find 10 euros on the cobble stone.