He sat there quietly – it was one of those long, short moments. Let her go – just let her go. And really, he knew he should have left it at that. But she wasn’t that easy to simply let go. In the stretched time of flight, when nothing happens for seconds, and minutes, and hours – it wasn’t easy at all. As the plane droned on endlessly, unremittingly through the night this honey of a woman slowly entranced him with her flattery.

She was his mirror that night – and she was showing him his best possible reflection.

Come on Max – surely we’re not going down this track are we?

Mate – you want to be a writer?

2.2

“Tell me Pierre – did you renounce the world?”

“Of course – I’m a sadhu.”

“Why?”

“I was young, French, Catholic… completely disillusioned with what I saw ahead of me.”

“And what was that?”

“Life in a cubicle.”

2.3

As the plane powered through the night the problem with Rita only grew. Not only was Max a young man – he was Australian, with all his own peculiar weaknesses as well.

Some of the scuttlebutt they’d printed about him in the newspapers had actually been true – not much, but some. Certainly the hint of perfume and the promise of an attractive woman had always been difficult for Max to ignore. And even though he knew that he should not be going down this path – that it was old, trampled ground… and a serious digression for the embryonic romantic hero he was creating within himself for his novel about himself… In truth, he was already resisting a very real urge to touch her. And not just touch her the way she was touching him – light, playful little touches as an affectionate emphasis to the mindless commentary. No, the temptation was to embrace her. And kiss her. And feel the beautiful swoop of that breast with its hard little nipple… feel it rising between his fingers…

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like a drink?”