There weren’t many people in the Rua dos Bares; over the loudspeaker of the Voz da Amazônia radio station came the sound of a famous bolero, and the two of us, inside the shop, listened to its echoes. She locked the doors so that no one could bother us. We sweated, she more than me, and hardly said anything. I carried so many boxes that the upper floor was jammed. There was no room left in Halim’s refuge. Rânia put the light on, gave one look at the mess, and changed her mind: she took it into her head to sort the whole shop, and wanted to begin with the storeroom. Her face, neck, and shoulders were shiny with sweat. I came down with the boxes, and then she decided to throw out old metal, rotten bits of wood, rusted hooks, rolls of tobacco, measuring tapes, gourds, and bottles. She got rid of all her father’s old junk, even throwing things from the previous century into the bin, like the miniature hookah that had belonged to Halim’s uncle. It didn’t bother her throwing all these things out. She operated with a fierce determination, quite aware she was burying a past. It was already late at night when we began to clean up the storeroom. We swept the floor with the big brush, took the old shelving down, and cleaned the walls. She was exhausted, dripping with sweat, but all the same decided to check the stock. When she bent over to open a box of sheets, I saw her breasts, tanned and sweaty, loose in her white sleeveless blouse. Rânia stayed in this position, and I was paralyzed seeing her like this, bowed down, with bare shoulders, breasts, and arms. When she got up, she looked at me for a few seconds. Her lips moved, and her insinuating voice whispered, slowly: “Should we stop?”