She moves around me, a possessive circle. I feel her forehead rest briefly on my back. She stands on tiptoe and inhales the nape of my neck. Her dress presses into my skin, that same absolute contact we had on the balconnade, and then, as before, she steps back. As before her withdrawal is a promise, and this time her hips linger, press harder. Fingers rest briefly on my shoulders in clear instruction: don’t move.