What was the use of torturing yourself? You either made it or you didn't. Let it happen..

She stopped drawing me. It was no use pretending. The end of our evening had not been consummated. There was a big fat question mark between us and she was as aware of it as I was. Were we going to be lovers? The Villa d'Este in all it sumptuous wetness could not mitigate that question one iota.

I decided to break the ice.

"Let me see what you've wrought?"

She eyed her portrait jealously, as if she wasn't sure she wanted it seen. "I don't know. I'm not sure it's right."

"Let me see. I'm a pretty good judge of these things."

"Well, all right. But I can do better."

She handed it over directly. There was an awe-inspiring directness about

her at times, a quality I wish I had. The sketch was very handsome but it wasn't

me.

"The sketch is very handsome but it's not me."

"Modest."

"Modest, hell. It's just not me. Do you really see me this way?"

"Are you accusing me of not being able to draw?"

"No, of course not. I'm not being subtle. But I've been drawn by a few

artists..."

"In your time."

"Now don't get testy!"

"Can I help it if I see you differently?"

"Oh, I see. The eye of the beholder."

"It's the same when you write, isn't it?"

"I suppose it is."

"I notice you haven't been writing anything."

"My mind's been racing."

"I loved every minute of last night. Every minute... Did you?"

"It was a wonderful evening. Beautiful meal!"

"Wasn't it great? I'll miss that restaurant. I could eat there every night." We were off, discussing food and wine, skirting the issue. After all, in some traditions, food is love.

"Listen, are you going to do any writing? This afternoon, I mean?" "I guess I ought to try."

"Well then, get to it. I'll make another sketch and I'll try to make it real ugly, o.k.?"

I laughed. She disarmed me. We worked for a while. I started writing a story about a girl who tried to describe all her sensations to herself as she experienced them. It made me think of a story by Thomas Mann called "Disillusionment." It was a very bad story and very untruthful-not Mann's, mine. I read it over and over, hating it for being clever. She insisted on seeing it. We exchanged drawing for story.

"So far, so good," she piped. "You're a talent."

I could have kissed her.

"I could kiss you for that."

I blew her a buss and she blew it back; emotional ping pong. Then she took out her little knife and cut generous portions of salami and provolone to put between the halves of our little panions. After the blown kiss, the