As he lay in bed with the early morning haze fuzzing the park, he could think of nothing but Hierocles. They had met only yesterday in the steamy fog of one of the more notorious bath-houses, but one thing had led to another and now he was obsessed. It was cold for early summer. The great shock of burgundy roses arranged in a vase by his bed were at odds with the sea-chill that hung over Rome. The smoky morning sky was flecked with pointillistic drizzle. He needed a drink and didn’t care that he allowed for no resting point in his intake. He realized he would have to put an end to this marriage, which anyhow had been little more than a political move on his part. In marrying Julia he hadn’t anticipated encountering so formal a partner. Her lack of humour, the correctness instilled in her by her father and her refusal to experiment sexually left him feeling cold in her company. Nothing about her turned him on, least of all the possessiveness that came from her insecurity. Alone with her, she wouldn’t let him be but endlessly questioned him as to his friends, whereabouts and the amount of time he spent downtown.
