As I wait, and hope that the Australian has forgotten our meeting, I dip the fingertips of my right hand one by one into the molten pool around the wick, relishing the hot, sharp pain followed by the feeling of delicious intimacy as each fingertip is coated in solidifying wax. I peel the caps off in turn, and let them fall to the table, where they land like petrified flower petals. I scoop them up and drop them into the breast pocket of Ernesto’s big, baggy shirt, not wanting to appear too bored by my guest’s late arrival. I make a bet with myself that I can identify him when he walks in. It’s a little unfair. I would know when he’s here with my eyes closed, so much does he jar with the faded elegance of the place. There’s something almost obscene about how healthy he looks: his tanned, blemish-free skin; the dog-dick, coral pink of his tongue against the bright white of his teeth. His T-shirt clings like sandwich wrap to a pair of repellent, inflated pectorals.
