By a quarter to eight the shelter already had a rehearsal. People arrived in ones and twos, offered a small good morning to a folded umbrella clipped to the post, and only then did the canopy lift, polite as a doorman who had been waiting to be introduced.
We asked at the kiosk across the street. The vendor, stacking pears, said the umbrella is shy of mumbling. If you hide the words in a scarf, it waits. If the whole queue says them together, you get the extra inch of shade that covers the stroller.
City Hall tucked a note into the timetable frame: greetings count; umbrellas are not to be rushed; please leave the handle for the next polite person. The day after, a man who had missed the chorus came back at noon just to try again. The canopy opened halfway, as if pleased he had remembered.