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He wondered if this counted as a poetic insight. Probably not. Or if it did it had already occurred to countless poets. Still, he’d mention it to her when she arrived. Likely, she’d snort, though it would depend or her mood; instead she might assume that wry, amused expression that told him he was impinging, clumsily if charmingly, upon her territory. Tiny crinkles of skin formed under her eyes when she had that look. It would be worth it for that alone.

He heard steps. The maître d’ crossed the terrace, arrived at his side, bowed fractionally and clicked his heels.

“Your table is ready, Mr. Zakalwe.”