As the curtain descended, she reached forward with her hand, placing it on his shoulder. He turned.

"Stephenson.?"

"Mrs. Staunton," he said, half-looking at her over his shoulder, "I do wish you'd not call me Stephenson."

There! He's said it. Finally!

Melissa went back. Well, well, she thought to herself.

"Very well, what would you prefer?"

"Steve."

She smiled quietly, covering her mouth with her hand. Then she wiped the grin off her face.

"Very well," she said, "on one condition."

"What would that be?" he asked, a little snottily. For some reason, which he couldn't figure out, he wasn't afraid of her.

"That you call me Melissa."

This shook him up. "What?"

"That you call me Melissa."

"I don't believe that."

"That's what I said, Steve."

He liked to hear the word "Steve" from her lips. It did something to him, made him feel more adult, less boyish, more of a man. The sound of Stephenson made him feel like a choirboy, some prissy boy student in some prissy boy school, wearing a white shirt with a black bow tie and the school blazer.

"You mean," he began, "that I can call you that, like, any time? In public, too?"

"If you wish, you may," she said slowly, pausing, then adding, "Steve."

As the opera house lights came on, catching more than one elegant bejeweled member of the audience dozing off in utter and complete boredom, Steve turned to Melissa.

"I'm dying for a drink of water… Melissa."

Her hand touched his knee and this shocked him. The smile on her face was extremely tender. She looked like a woman half her age.

"You want to know what I'm dying for?" She had a wide grin now, and this made him smile in return.