As I served her dinner, she kept staring at me, teasing me with her eyes. She asked me if I had cut the olives myself, if I had baked the biscuits. I assured her I had. She put her napkin on her plate, covering the hardly touched meal, and walked around the table to sit on my lap. I kissed her. We forgot the rest of our dinner, fucking on the floor until the candles had burned out.
Lord Malinov, Journals of Lord Malinov