The restaurant was a small Italian place on Thompson Street. I was low-priced and off the beaten track, and the tourists never knew that it existed. They sat together across a small table in the rear. A candle burned in a Chianti bottle, dripping wax over the green sides of the wine bottle. There was a red and white checked cloth on the table, a portrait of Garibaldi on the far wall, an air of shabby-genteel antiquity permeating the room. They ate spaghetti with marinara sauce and drank Chianti at room temperature.

“I’m very glad you’re here,” Megan was saying. “I couldn’t face the idea of eating alone not tonight. And you’re good company.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you like this place? It’s always been a favorite of mine.”

“I like it very much.”

“More wine?”

“Well-”

But Megan was already filling both their glasses. “I’m a real sinner when it comes to wine,” she said, grinning. “I don’t like to drink otherwise, because I don’t like to get drunk. I hate the idea of losing control of myself, and if I drink hard liquor that usually happens.” She took a small sip of wine. “But this is different,” she went on. “Wine just gives you a happy and heady feeling. And tastes good, too. Have you been in the Village long, Rhoda?”

“Five months.”

“But you lived in the city before that, didn’t you?”

She nodded. “Uptown for almost three years. On the west side first, while I was working. And then on the east side after I got married.”

“I didn’t know you were married.”

“I’m not. It didn’t work out.”

“Divorce?”

“Annulment. I suppose it amounts to the same thing. Except that I have my maiden name, and that I don’t collect alimony.” She lowered her eyes. “I didn’t want his money,” she said.