The thermometer reads 27°C. Your favorite linen shirt hangs on the chair, wrinkled like a map of Roman roads. You look at it. It looks at you. Neither of you moves.
Here's the inconvenient truth of a Lisbon summer: heat doesn't iron itself. Nor does linen unwrinkle with stares, no matter how intense. We can stay in this thermal standoff as long as you like — physics doesn't negotiate.
But we do. And we understand natural fibers like your grandfather understood ...