He detached himself from my body and stretched out on the towel beside mine, sighing as if he had freed himself from some cumbersome weight. Lying on my side, I studied the curves of his back and marveled at them; I noted the slow approach of my hand, but immediately withdrew the gesture, fearful of his reaction. I gazed long at him and the Faraglioni, one eye on him, the other on the rocks; then shifting my gaze, I noticed the moon in the middle and stared at it, lost in wonder, squinting to bring its roundness and indescribable color into sharper focus.

All of a sudden I turned around, as if I had unexpectedly realized something, some mystery till then beyond my grasp. "I don't love you," I murmured, almost to myself.

I didn't even have time to think it.

He slowly turned, opened his eyes, and asked, "What the fuck did you say?"

I looked at him a moment, my face set, motionless, and in a louder voice I said, "I don't love you."

He frowned, drawing his eyebrows closer together. Then he shouted, "Who the fuck ever asked you to?"

We remained in silence, and he again turned his back to me. I heard a car door close and then a couple's muted laughter. Daniele turned toward them and, annoyed, said, "What the fuck do these people want? Why don't they screw somewhere else and leave me in peace?"

"Don't they have the right to screw where they want?" I said, studying the sheen of the clear polish on my fingernails.

"Listen, babe, you don't have to tell me what other people can or can't do. I decide, only me. I've decided for you too, and I'll always decide."

While he was speaking, I turned away, annoyed, and lay down on the wet towel. He shook my shoulders angrily and emitted some indecipherable sounds through clenched teeth. I didn't move; every muscle in my body was still.

"You can't treat me like this!" he screamed. "You can't not give a damn about me. When I talk, you have to listen, you can't turn away. Understand?"