There were three.
At nine, the waitress closes down, puts on her coat, and embraces the boy with the glasses in the cobblestone square next to the foot bridge.
At nine-thirty, the boy on the bicycle pulls up to the curb and holds the girl’s hand as she steps out onto the sidewalk.
At ten, we pass a couple walking very slowly down the street which leads to the town center, his arms around her shoulder and hers around his waist.
In Ollanta – where the count goes dos-tres, dos-tres as the townspeople practice dance on the cement court and roosters crow throughout the night–not just at daybreak–and the mountains disturb the high travel of clouds come rainy season – time stands still as lovebirds in blue jeans emerge under cover of darkness to make the world theirs.