It surprised Myra that in all their time at Ourania the Professor did not order even one drop of alcohol.
No one here was drunk, but everyone was drinking.
They shared several cigarettes and quietly watched some entertainment, even a poem that reminded her of the doomed love her mother had for her father and made her cry a little.
“You don’t drink alcohol?” she asked finally.
He smiled and shook his head.
“Not really. But I enjoy my wines here and there.”
He was now sitting on the pillowed rug in front of her couch, his head of thick curly hair near her knee. “Do you want some?”
He tilted his head back to look at her up on the couch.
She shook her head.
She did not have a good head for alcohol. She may leave here and not remember what happened. She told him this, a test, to
