Elisa Palacio and Juan Laxagueborde choose to discuss cafés in the present, the pandemic. I briefly introduce you to their past and, secretly, mine. The translator is the shadow of the text. I find myself thinking about the Dirty War since returning to Buenos Aires, perhaps due to the social unrest in the United States. Some things are best said and lost in the murmur of a crowd in a café, voices merge and become unintelligible, except to the intended listener. A man and a woman sit at the bar. He says, “Feel my hand”—this is not a joke. It is outstretched and trembling. Upon her touch it grows still. Some things are simple and beautiful. I realise now that I am introducing a conversation by speaking to myself, but we always have someone in mind. A figure on a balcony, face illuminated by the light of a cellphone, with nowhere to go but back in, home.

—Elisa Taber, Introduction