Marco threaded his way from the hotel to Downtown, dropped the car in a parking garage and, taking Marisa by the hand, dashed along the sidewalks still damp with rain. The two followed an avenue converging to an overpass above the valley. At the end of it, they reached the illuminated frontispiece of the Municipal Theater. Renaissance statues perched like angels on the façade that stood out against the backdrop of skyscrapers and a starless sky. The lobby made itself pretty with art nouveau jewelry and baroque minutia, in a profusion of marble, bronze, mirrors and stained glass.

"Here we are, right on time" a much satisfied Marco announced. "I thought the opera would be something different for celebrating your graduation." And since Marisa was getting all excited: "But hold on, you may not even like it that much-"

She silenced him with a kiss.

They took a box seat near the stage. Marisa admired the Murano glass flower on the balcony parapet and looked up. The ornate dome above supported a chandelier that floated like a sun above the red velvet seats, offering to the eye the radiance of thousands of crystal pendants.

The presentation soon began, and the stage came to life with a red background and a Japanese residence in the shade of a cherry tree. Madame Butterfly's tragedy began, centered in Cio-Cio-San, a fifteen-year old geisha living in Japan during the nineteenth century. She fell in love with Benjamin Pinkerton, a U.S. Naval officer who was visiting the country and wed her in a marriage of convenience.

The official later departed to the United States with false promises that he would be back soon. In the meantime, Pinkerton married an American woman, not knowing Cio-Cio was pregnant. She waited for him to come back for three long years. Pinkerton eventually returned, but with his new wife, to get his son. Desperate, Cio-Cio bid her farewell to the child and committed hara-kiri.

At the theater exit, as they walked to the parking garage, Marisa remained quiet. She was moved by the presentation. At the time of the story's setting, it wasn't uncommon for American naval officers to visit Japan and marry Japanese women, abandoning them upon their return to the United States-according to records, Madame Butterfly was real.

The sidewalks had dried up, streets filled with people and laughter punctuated conversations in bars. With the thermometer registering eighty-eight degrees, the air was like a viscous mantle. Marisa contemplated the half moon with a halo of frayed clouds-it looked like a ghost wrapped in tatters. With sudden uneasiness, she squeezed Marco's hand.

As usual, he stopped the car on the corner of her street. Marisa crammed the wig into her purse and picked up a bunch of text books on the back seat. In the morning she had a practice exam and, as always, still needed to finish her notes before going to bed. With her hand on the door, she paused and stared at Marco. In an impulse, she dropped the books, kissing him on a spot between his jaw and mouth. Then she held him tight.

"Hey... what's up?" he asked in flattered surprise.

"Thank you, Marco. For everything."

The two did not want to part. Their hands said it when they entwined. Marco touched Marisa's face next. She brushed her cheek against his. They gazed at each other while their hands met once more, fingers mingling, imprinting caresses on the palm and back, mingling again-waking up the body. Heat, shiver, hot, cold. All the things imagined. Their bodies couldn't be united that very moment. Their hands could, and that's what they were saying.

See how I caress your flesh on the mount of Venus, here below the thumb? It's just that I'd like to do the same to all of you. See how the tip of my index trails the contours of your fingers one by one, going up and down like this? That reminds me of the curves of your body, which I would so much like to kiss now, like dew on the petal of your skin... picking with my mouth the bud on your breast and the blossomed flower on the plane down below, until you quiver inside your dress...

And me, I feel my body pulsating at your touch, I brush my palm on yours in circles, this is what I would like to do, brush my belly against yours while I feel you in me, as a part of me, giving me so much pleasure like only you can give... See how I scratch your palm to give you a shiver. Afterward I stroke your hand with the back of mine, tenderly, and it's as if we were lying together, skin with skin, arms and legs entangled, and me touching your face...

A world at the fingertips, in the palm of the hand.

"See you tomorrow night then?" she finally asked with a sigh.

"That's right."

"Dinner and a movie?"

"Dinner and a movie. Then the flat," he added in a suggestive tone.

"How about we stop by before dinner?" Marisa caressed his nape and nibbled on his earlobe. "Just to check if your orchids are all right."

"Do you think they'll need watering?"

"Lots of watering. Before dinner. And afterwards."

"We have to look after those orchids, don't we?"

"Yeah. That Selenependium alone requires much care."

"Selenipedium," he corrected, threading his index finger into a tress of her hair. "Ah, we need to do something about your Latin, Marisa. Such a shame. A promising student like you. Tomorrow we'll revise a couple of terms that I find particularly enjoyable. While we water the orchids."

"I'd love a private lesson, Professor. Your diction is perfect. You're so intelligent, so cultured, so strong. You know so many things."

"Hmm. I like that. What else?"

"Well..."

Marco didn't wait for the answer. He demanded Marisa's mouth, one hand rolling from her hair to her shoulder and following a slow path down one arm. It lodged briefly on the waist before ascending to skirt her breast. And there it remained, splayed, as it kindled the flesh in a circular motion. With an impatient gesture Marisa pulled his hand. It closed around the crown of her breast and then opened to envelop all of it.

She moved her thigh against his pelvis, against the beginning of the erection, as she girdled Marco and pulled him closer. He reclined the seat and covered her with his body.

"I wanted to do this since you arrived at the restaurant," Marco whispered, brushing his lips across her shoulder.

"Me too. If it weren't for the practice exam..."

"Tomorrow I'll book a room in that hotel. We'll celebrate again, would you like that?"

Her answer was implicit in the way Marisa fondled his body against hers, inhaling the new cologne and closing her eyes for an instant to detect his scent. She proceeded to investigate underneath his shirt, felt the smooth flanks and then the abdomen down and the soft hairs on the chest. With a sigh, she slid her hands to the back pockets of his pants, far from being satisfied. She desired more. To sip everything hiding beneath those clothes while his mouth travelled over her body. The two of them turning and turning, until her head was between his legs and his head was between hers. And then, at some point, the two would turn again and become one.

Just the thought of it... Ah. Damn practice exam.

"I know what you're thinking," Marco said in her ear, his warm breath awakening a shiver in Marisa. He stamped a moist kiss on her neck, and she emitted a languid gasp.

"You do?"

"I can give you a hand."

Marco leaned back and, hooking his index in her dress neckline, tugged it downward to her midsection. He kept it like that and, with his free hand, ran his fingers on the exposed groove between the breasts. Marco moved north and south, and now he strummed her skin with his fingertips. Very lightly, taking off and touching down, taking off again and touching down on another spot. He sent tiny shocks at each passage, and her flesh tingled in anticipation, uncertain as to where that energy would drip like a thick and hot liquid. Honey melting on his fingertips. Honey spread across her belly, thighs and loins. Honey on the fingertips harvesting her honey.

She arched back, half closing her eyes and flexing one leg against his flank. Her head tossed from side to side, until her upper body stiffened when his hand quickened the motion simultaneously within and without. A jarred moan. Marisa hovered on the verge of climax. She plunged into a whirl, floating adrift on her senses, expanding in vibration. Climax rippled through her. And rippled and rippled.

Marco teased Marisa with a raw lunge of his hips as he sought her mouth and filled it the way he wanted to fill her body. In a hypnotic swell that ebbed and flowed, stroking lightly, slithering, deepening. They danced in place, his solid build in contrast with her softness, together to the right and left, slowly slipping in opposite directions to intensify the contact. Then Marco smoothed out the neckline of Marisa's dress and returned to his seat. He licked his fingertips smiling.

"I better stop, or I'll have you naked right here. The car is not the most appropriate place for that," he said in a husky voice.

"Marco, you're mean," she murmured, slightly dizzy, adjusting herself and the seat. She still felt his presence on her body. She wanted all of it. To take it with her mouth, hands, core. To make him float too.

His smile became sinful. His obsidian gaze.

"Tomorrow night I'll show you how mean I can be."

Deep house on the radio. I'm gonna do as I want to, ain't nobody's business if I do, no no, nobody's business what we do...

Reluctantly, they said goodbye and Marisa went down the street. Marco noticed one of her books had fallen under the seat and called her. Since she didn't hear him, he picked it up and followed Marisa, reaching her as she was entering the building. In the deserted lobby they exchanged a brief kiss and, the moment Marco was about to leave, he turned back and they kissed again, this time in a long promise for their next date.

When the two parted, Marisa stepped into the elevator with an aerial expression and her thoughts far away. Like in the pages of a book, she read the narrative for the following evening. The pages flipped, each with a different scene. Marisa pictured herself in Marco's arms as his dark eyes pulsed in hers. She loved his body and its familiarity that welcomed her. She delighted in the counterpoise offered by the surprises of the die.

The first thing Marisa heard as she entered the apartment was a scream followed by a burst of gunshots: her mother was watching a gangster movie on TV.

"How was the party?" she asked.

"Great. The principal delivered a moving speech and I danced a lot."

The mother studied Marisa from head to toe while two men in dark suits fought onscreen (punches, knocked-off lamps, pistol under sofa).

"That dress fits you well after all." She smiled. "And your dad's gift matched it. For Christmas, I'm going to get you a sapphire ring to complete the set."

Marisa smiled too and remembered to hide behind her back the hand with the ring given by Marco. She sneaked it into her purse. Concentrating on the TV for a moment, she asked if the film was good, to which the mother shrugged: she wasn't very keen on Mafia stories, but couldn't find anything better on. Marisa offered to help her out and, together, they explored the TV guide. There was a German-Turkish comedy that her mother hadn't watched yet.

"Soul Kitchen: In a suburb of Hamburg, Zinos struggles with his restaurant on the verge of bankruptcy, the departure of his girlfriend to China and the swindles of his ex-convict brother. As if it weren't enough, he gets himself a hernia, health inspectors are on his back, and his apartment catches fire. Yet the worst is still to come..." Marisa's mother made a doubtful face. Was that actually a comedy? Yes, lots of fun. So they tuned into the film: funk music soundtrack, a pile of destroyed plates and a gawky Greek, all wrapped up to go with a side order of fries-it wasn't long before both mother and daughter were laughing and sharing a pack of sweets on the couch. Until Marisa remembered she needed to be up early the next day and kissed her mother goodnight.

As soon as she went inside the bedroom, Marisa heard the cell phone beep. She sat on the bed, fumbling with her handbag to retrieve the phone. There she saw the text message from Marco...

Check your email.

She accessed her inbox and found it: the photograph of a red rose bouquet wrapped in Mario Quintana's verses. About how good it was to live day by day, enjoying the moment like the clouds in the sky. With a crazy wind rose on the hat, without giving a name to the river for it was always another river that flowed in an eternal new beginning: "And with no memory of former lost times, I cast the rose of the dream into your distracted hands..."

To which Marisa replied with the words by the pen of another poet, this time Drummond de Andrade. That one should not take the word love lightly, for it was delicate and beautiful like a soap bubble, a sacred name that was perfection on Earth and should not be desecrated. (We keep this sacred name between us, my dear Marco, and the truth in this poem comforts me.)

As she undressed, a Joao Gilberto song came to play on her lips. It must be noted that Marisa wouldn't be singing had she suspected the commotion that gurgled eight stories below. It had all started that very evening when Ms. Rosaura, the gossiper neighbor from the ground floor, faced a couple of very inconvenient mishaps. Her pot of soup burned while she rushed to the market for parsley; and the aphonic television set transformed the prime time soap opera into a bad silent movie with no subtitles.

The first problem, Ms. Rosaura solved with a cheese and tomato sandwich (very tasty mozzarella, by the way, only $4.99). The second problem was skirted with one of her favorite pastimes: snooping through the peephole. The conclusion reached by Ms. Rosaura that evening was that she should buy more of that cheese. She also concluded that, sometimes, the attractions in the lobby of the building turned out to be far superior to those on TV.

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Check out the multimedia on this page and listen to the deep house playing in the car. Nice :-)

And if you vote for this chapter you'll get a free mozzarela cheese... but wait, there's more! Vote in the next 5 seconds, and you will receive a free cheese grater and a subscription of Ms. Rosaura's favorite magazine, "The Dairy Queen", a $79,99 value and riveting read!