As the other members of the audience were returning to the opera house to continue their self-torture with the Puccini, Melissa and Steve were relaxing at a corner table in the open-terraced cafe. He was sitting next to her rather than opposite. They were enjoying a heady beer.

"There's more cold beer at home," Melissa said. Her thigh was touching Steve's. He could feel the pressing weight of it. Also, the intoxicating fragrance of her perfume was intensified by the sultry night, and the aroma of sweet jasmine seemed stronger. It was the way the small winds from the sea nearby were blowing, ruffling the palm fronds, stirring up the cigarette smoke from the ashtrays on the many white-clothed tables.

Steve flinched at her use of the word "home." He hadn't thought of the childish appellation "home" in a long time. And he hadn't yet associated Le Ne Trespassing as his home, even though he was beginning to realize he might be there for quite a spell. It all depended.

"Is that where we're going?" he asked.

"If you want to, Steve. If not, then we can do something else." Melissa looked away. She opened her purse and put on a pair of dark glasses. She'd seen several old acquaintances with whom she had no desire to become entangled at the moment.

"Like what?"

Melissa sighed. She pressed her thigh against his. He didn't flinch and he didn't indicate that he even noticed.

"Well, we could send Maurice after another bottle of cold beer or six. There are glasses in the car."

It was an open-ended sentence. "Would that be agreeable, Steve? We could take a little ride along the coast. It's fun. You've not seen it yet. Really, it's a fun thing to do. Maurice knows all the little places, the turn-offs, les curls des sacs."