The calli around San Francesco della Vigna wind themselves around one other, split apart, interlace, find each other, merge, separate again.

It is 17:42 and you are stepping into a bar. You have walked past it earlier, without paying attention – you are sure of it. A woman stands behind the counter, drying glasses with a cloth, placing them carefully side-by-side on a red, tin tray. Only those noises: wipe (squeak), tin, clink. Those and the ceiling-fan (not really the noise of it, rather the sound of air moving in circles). You realise you have definitely not been here before, yet you do remember a place just like this in Berchidda, last year, visited (no: suffered) during a cruelly hot summer day.

When she talks, cloth and glass in hand, she says: you’re already here.

Embarrassed, you walk out. After all, you should have known.