A woman whose age should not be guessed is talking at the cafe. Her salon-fresh bob appears, at first glance, to be silvery grey. And so it is, but where it curves beneath her chin the undersides are deep, reddish brown. She’s animated, bending forward, pumping her fists up and down and smiling, talking quickly. She pauses, hand to forehead, then straightens again and glides her hands in mirrored gestures, like leaves floating down from a tree.