They had a month and a half to go before the end of the school term: December 13th was officially the last day of classes and the graduation party was scheduled for the following evening. Marco wanted to wait. Nonetheless, it came to happen after one week, four furtive cups of coffee and a Sunday lunch that lingered in conversation through the afternoon. It happened naturally, like the rain that day and the sparkle in their eyes.

It was Marisa and Marco's first date in no hurry. He opened a bottle of Merlot and, while he finished preparing a vegetable tiella, the two shared family stories and memories. They talked about his large clan based in the countryside (two brothers, seven uncles and aunts, seventeen cousins, twelve nephews and nieces) and her kindred living in the city (second generation of French immigrants, two uncles, four cousins, no nephews or nieces). They talked about the first time he walked on the Champs-Elysees and the day she couldn't go to the top of the Eiffel Tower due to a protest march.

She told him of a lecture on the Buddhist Wheel of Life, he explained archetypes and the hero's journey toward consciousness. Those topics were alternated with platitudes such as his microwave in need of replacement and the horoscope in the newspaper left on a chair (the Libra woman should have a surprise and the Scorpio man would face a family problem.) In their conversation, a simple comment about the weather was colored with enchantment: the words didn't matter as much as what lay between the lines-in that language known only by lovers, even the most trivial sentence forged kinship.

"We could go to Alto Paraíso for Carnival," Marisa was saying. "Do you know the place?"

"Only through photos. It has waterfalls, right?"

"It has the Valley of the Moon. One of the most beautiful spots I've ever visited. A stretch of rocks that look like lunar craters surrounded by vegetation, with turquoise pools in the middle. The rocks have tiny green crystals embedded in them, which shine in the moonlight."

"Yeah, let's go there, Mari. If you like waterfalls, we can also visit Lençóis da Bahia on Easter... Oh, you don't know it? It's a lovely town with colonial houses and..."

Outside, the raindrops were rolling; inside, it was the notes of Chopin's piano. Marisa inquired what was playing. The Waltz no. 14 in E minor. Let's dance, Marco. Ah, Mari, but I can't waltz. It's very easy, Marco, come here and I'll show you... He stood smiley and awkward, she brisk and didactic. Position: one hand on the partner's back (here, close to the shoulders) and the other away from the body holding your pair's hand. Let's go. One, two, three... And off they went spinning around the table, one, two, three, passing by the stove and the refrigerator, one, two, three, left-right-left, one foot sliding in the twirl, now the cabinets and the counter, a step forward for him, a step backward for her, once again the refrigerator, one, two, three, one two, tree...

The Minute Waltz kicked in and hastened the pace, and suddenly they were spinning in the romantic Paris of the 19th century, him in a black tailcoat, waistcoat and bow tie, her in a green dress with bare shoulders. They danced in a blue ballroom under a vaulted ceiling, in a scintillation of crystal sconces and chandeliers. The walls with gold-plated reliefs flourished in multicolor rose arrangements. One, two, three, one, two, three, whirling and whirling in blue golden crystal, inside the blooming rainbow, until the aroma of fresh basil spread in the kitchen. In Sao Paulo of the 21st century, lunch was ready. Marco removed the dish from the oven and lit up a candle to enliven the table.

The two sat down contentedly and, while eating, talked about books and favorite authors, so many that they even lost track. Marisa recalled La Petite Fadette by George Sand, which her father had read for her when she was little. Marco was surprised by the coincidence: the author was one of Chopin's lovers. The conversation moved on to poetry, and he headed for the office to fetch a book before dessert-which they would only savor much later anyway. It was a collection of visual poems by Augusto de Campos that Marisa really enjoyed. Life (the repeated word forming a labyrinth)... A time from space to space, a time, a space from time to time... They leafed through the book, one more sip of wine, one more kiss. Debussy and Claire de Lune in the air, the taste of grapes and something else, another poem, the time without time of a caress. Then it happened.

Here they are with nothing but their bodies. Lovers relatives. Here are the lovers, with no relatives but their bodies...

The bedroom submerged in dimness when Marco shut the curtains, blocking the sight of the lead-gray sky streaked with beads of glass. Marisa vaguely captured the rain sounds, the incandescent colors of the painting at the headboard and a flash of antique silver from the rectangular mirror across the bed. Next, all her senses were siderated by Marco's closeness, his skin, warmth, scent. Embraces, whispers. One half-smile mirrored on their lips and multiplied in the mirror. Have you ever tried that, Mari? You can be whatever you want...

A princess from a distant land. And now she was under his control.

Marco covered Marisa's eyes with a blindfold and, in a fluid motion, impelled her to the bed. She felt the silk of the spread on her back and his body next to hers. A faint aroma of aftershave lotion followed by warm breathing against Marisa's neck when he spoke in her ear:

"You're on a desert beach swept by a storm. The sand borders a forest. In the middle of the forest there's a cabin. You are a prisoner inside, at the mercy of a stranger. You don't know how you got there and try to guess what your captor is going to do. You fear... anticipate... and can't suppress a shiver when he touches you..."

Marco's hands grazed against her legs to the ankles as he removed her sandals. Then they initiated an ascent to the waistband of her denim skirt that bordered the white top. His voice was like thick velvet and sometimes would punctuate the words with a stronger note.

Words.

The voice rustled in her ears, words grasping the senses, trailing the skin to make it vibrate like a musical instrument at each syllable, each meaning, letters entering the pores, hands-words stretched on her body, in her core.

"You try to protest, but your captor covers your mouth..." Marco placed one hand on Marisa's mouth, while the other advanced. "He unbuttons your skirt. His hands explore your body. Evaluating... the thighs... the hips... They play with your navel. Spread all over your stomach, your flank. They go down a little. And a little further... You feel goose bumps. You want more. He refuses it. His hands glide to your blouse neckline and pull the fabric. He lowers the straps. Little by little. Then the whole blouse at once."

At each word followed the action. Hands tantalized the blossoming skin. Marisa quivered. Fever budded where he touched and irradiated to every inch of her body.

So that's how it was. His touch.

Marisa moaned faintly when Marco slid his tongue on her breasts, collarbone, shoulder. His teeth sunk softly on her neck, lingered on the earlobe.

A whiff on the sensitive skin. Again the hand against the mouth.

A whisper in her ear:

"Inside the cabin is hot. The rain pounds on the roof. Through a gap in the window comes a cool draft... the smell of wet ground and sand mixed with the scent of the man manipulating your body without permission. You feel exposed. Want to cover yourself but are afraid of crossing his will. You can't do a thing when his hand descends to the last piece of clothing ..."

It was white and lacey. Marco crept under its smooth and coarse surface, slithering on the line above the pubis. Coming and going, coming and going.

"The hand hooks in the fabric. It yanks it off. You're naked. You feel the cooler air as you sense the stranger's eyes caressing your whole body, every curve, every hiding spot..." Marco heaved, his hot breath on her skin. "You tremble from head to toe, legs weak, chest heavy. A tingling sensation that travels up your thighs. He likes to watch you. Watch the desire on your face."

The hand that silenced her traced the contour of her lips. Two fingers were inserted in her mouth. Marisa let her tongue roll around them, sucked, tasted. One more instant. The fingers dismissed, his lips on hers. Firm hands that pinned her arms against the mattress. That groped her hips with hardly refrained hunger. The kiss, increasingly thirsty.

And on a sudden his tongue was not enticing her mouth any longer. Now it travelled an impromptu path to her navel, dived in it, surrounded it, kept moving... The flattened hands on her thighs, a fiery touch on her sex. The tongue. The fingers: first one, then the other. The tongue on one part, the fingers deepened in another, retreating to deepen more. She circled her hips with a sigh, dominated by a liquid sensation that ran across her limbs, spiraled over her breasts and swirled low in her belly. Slow, fast, deeper and deeper.

And then these hands, this mouth abandoned her. The sound of his clothes, T-shirt, belt buckle, zipper, condom wrap torn with teeth. The blindfold removed. The craving.

His eyes in hers.

His body in hers...

The afternoon oozed away with the rain while they remained in the bedroom-captive and captor, inside the cabin in the forest. Then it was two silhouettes under the circle of light from the nightstand lamp, lying together, contently spent-so close to each other, it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began.

"Did you like it?" asked Marco as he stroked Marisa's hair.

"I loved it. I enjoy experiencing different things." She half closed her eyelids, nuzzling his neck.

"Then you found your match. We got along well, didn't we? It's as if we already know each other. And it'll get even better as we have more intimacy."

"The funny thing is, I didn't feel nervous with you the way I felt the first time with my ex Sergio. It took me a while to be at ease with him, even though he was more traditional... You always do that?"

Marisa contemplated him with renewed curiosity when he nodded.

"I like to explore fantasies," said Marco, his hand now tracing the line of her hip. "Desire is mystery, a constant discovery. You never know what's gonna happen and may discover things about yourself that you weren't even aware of. Between four walls anything goes. The bedroom is not politically correct."

"Hmm... politically correct... That would be a hell of a kinky fetish."

"Yeah. With an ISO 9000 guide for best practices and ecological solutions."

"Mr. Fares." Marisa cleared her throat and pitched her voice. "I have already disinfected my hand with alcohol gel. Allow me to shove it inside your pants."

"It would be a pleasure, Miss Constant. If you don't mind, I want to reciprocate your kindness. Pass me the alcohol if you may..."

Marco pinched her bottom and suppressed a laugh when she wriggled protesting, Mr. Fares, please! Then he changed his tone.

"But we shouldn't have done it, Mari. For one thing, we shouldn't even be seeing each other."

"Why not?" Marisa tipped back her head to look at him. "In a few weeks time I will no longer be your student. What are a few weeks compared to a lifetime? To eternity? This is really just a matter of form. Oh, we shouldn't be together because it's morally wrong. Yeah, right. Do I look like Lolita? Nabokov must be laughing in his grave." She gesticulated impatiently. "It's easy to judge someone when you're not in their shoes. Me, I believe you can only understand something after you've lived it. Before that, it's only an abstraction, a rationalization based on stereotype. I came to this conclusion because of us. A while ago, if someone had told me a girl from school was seeing one of the teachers, I'd probably think she either wanted a trophy or he just wanted to have a good time, or both. But then, after we've met... So yeah, each case is different. And we're not hurting anyone. Let's not forget hell is other people."

Marco's clouded expression cleared and he couldn't help a smile. Lolita. No, she was very much Marisa. And yet... Light of my life, fire of my loins, my soul... Marco recited silently as he placed a kiss on her forehead. I love you. Without warning, those three words budded in his thought. They almost budded on his lips. Their sudden intensity startled him. He hadn't felt that way in such a long time, he almost forgot what it was like. It was wonderful. It was terrifying. He swallowed up the words and joked instead:

"Now you got into quoting Sartre. I've created a monster."

"Seriously, Marco. The future hasn't arrived yet and the past is gone. Happiness is in the here and now. It's the present that threads the past and the future. Let's make the most of what we have now to create our memories and our tomorrow. We're feeling a strong bond and it happened... and I'm very happy with you."

"I know what you mean. I just think that when in Rome... but I'm happy too, Mari, more than you can imagine. It's the first time I feel like this since my divorce... no, actually way before that, because things between me and her had not been working for a while. Then, when I was on my own, I had a number of one-night stands that meant nothing. I just felt numb. Heavy. Like a hundred years old."

"Was your separation... that bad?"

The marriage had lasted seven years. It started off happily in spite of difficulties and little by little dimmed out almost without them realizing it. In the last year the relationship became unsustainable. Constant fights, sometimes for no reason. The problem was not what they manifested but what they hid. He still hoped to salvage the relationship. When it ended, it was like a hurricane sweeping his life away and turning everything upside down.

A shadow crossed Marco's face-the expression that settled in belonged to another man. Marisa was startled: she didn't recognize him. More than that: she lost him. The traits were the same albeit there was something different about them, in the imperceptible contraction of the muscles and in the shield covering his gaze. Then the shadow dissipated, and in its place the Marco she knew reappeared, but still on time's high wire, with one foot behind and the other in midair, returning slowly.

"That was what it felt like. A hurricane. I lost weight, couldn't sleep, drowned myself in work. I tried picturing life without Lorena and couldn't do it. It took me quite a while to pick up the pieces. I got divorced two years ago and, in a sense, still have some bits scattered around... But let's not talk about that. It belongs to the past, and what matters is the present, right?" His mouth curved in a smile as he gazed at her. "Now it's like I'm twenty again, and I must look quite silly, don't you think?"

Marisa smiled too, as it was very easy to smile around him. She caressed his hair with a tenderness that encompassed everything he was and had been. Like rock sediments that tell a history, she read his existence in various layers: the teacher who she knew in class and the man with whom she now shared her intimacy; the doctorate student with a stubble beard composing his thesis behind a barricade of books; the man married to a college mate (and, at this point, dark spots on the stone prevented Marisa from forming a clear picture); the University of Sao Paulo freshman plotting great plans with other freshmen at the King of Mixed Drinks... and finally, on the last layer-behind the shield of adulthood and the idiosyncrasies that she could sense-Marisa caught a glimpse of a boy in shorts, with a band-aid on his knee and the hands covered in dirt, running carelessly to the river and the barn with his brothers, far from imagining what the future had in store. Childhood was an eternal now: it captured yesterday with the lasso of a very short rope and tomorrow with a stone thrown too far to be within sight. In the enchantment of childhood, everything shone brand-new, and Marisa saw through Marco's eyes silvery fish in the silver of the river, unicorns with brown manes and the sky where fat herds of clouds grazed.

And Marco, as he looked at her, saw the summary of childhood and adolescence with all colors in mutation, increasingly hybrid and complex. In the beginning it was the pink of strawberry candy and plush teddy bears; then emerged the deeper pink of the first kiss, the dusky pink of the first great question without an answer, and along with it the deep-blue of disquiet. Marco contemplated the face blooming at eighteen summers, and in the eyes, behind the amber glow, something opaque like oxidized copper. Marisa had learned what existed beyond dolls, family vacations and the latest cell phone model: the pain. She had lost her maternal grandfather to a heart attack when she was little, but that did not compare to the loss of her father. Would it be easier if he had been obliterated by disease, giving her time to get used to the idea of his absence? Marisa mentioned that she still saw him everywhere. She would have a startle when she was home and a cloud concealed the sun or the curtains undulated in the wind-in those moments, light shifted and she would turn to find, instead of her father, only a shadow slipping away through a cleft in the air. Marco knew in that farewell her life too had been turned upside down. He kissed Marisa's left eyelid and then the right one, and held her close.

There, in the bedroom, their lives were intervolving along with their bodies-like two tired travelers who saw a window shining in the middle of the night and, as they drew nearer, realized they had at last reached home. In a way, it was a return to the colors of childhood, for everything became a new discovery. It was already diner time when, wrapped in twin gray robes, they went barefoot to the kitchen to honor dessert: a fruit salad with a mountain of vanilla ice cream. They savored it amid giggles and icy kisses, spoon-feeding each other.

While they were at it, Marisa saw the die on the counter behind a jar. Curious, she stood to pick it up and brought it to the table. It was a piece made of slightly yellowed ivory with hand-carved dots, each exhibiting one circle spiraling within another. Like eyes. Marco explained it was the replica of a die used at the time of the Roman Empire.

"It's very beautiful. It should be in your living room. Why do you leave it here?" asked Marisa, rolling it between her fingers.

"I keep it in the bedroom, but when I'm on my own I like to throw it on the kitchen table. I totally forgot about it. It's been here since the last time."

"And was the last time good?" she asked with a twinge of jealousy.

"It doesn't matter. That was before you."

Marisa was reassured by his gaze. Then her curiosity returned.

"But why the kitchen?"

"It's a neutral space. It helps me think."

"About what?"

A glint of mischievousness colored his eyes and he avoided the subject with a kiss-ice, warmth, a taste of apple. Marisa insisted, sat on his lap and threatened to tickle him. Marco laughed.

"Since you're so interested, the die is for bedroom games," he said at last.

"Let's play then."

"Maybe some other time."

"Oh, Marco." She smiled. "C'mon, let's play..."