She allows herself to know his first name—Jonathan. Good. Baroque and unusual names excite in her, in what she imagines is an inevitable reaction to the Finnish–Egyptian splicing of her own, a kind of fatigue. But Jonathan is fine. No middle name, and last name Jones, which is gratifyingly tedious. Jonathan Jones is, semiotically speaking, a man among many men. His uniqueness must arise from himself, not from parlour tricks with words. Good again. She considers searching out an image of his hands, but does not. If they are ordinary she will put herself off, and if they are not she will raise her own expectations. No.