White Vespa. Kevin Oderman

about the customers she felt indifferent. Except for Myles. She had been flirting with Myles.

      She asked the bartender for a gin, and he gave it to her in a coffee cup. On the house, all of them were on the house. Maybe the bartender liked her, maybe he didn’t care for the management all that much. Either way, the gin was free.

      The bartender was cleaning up, cleaning the bar with a wet towel, restocking. He was very efficient. A John, Anne thought, vaguely amused. From Australia, working his way around the world. He’d been gone three years, half the time in London, half on the road. He had some good stories, Anne thought, but he wasn’t any good at telling them. She’d listened to him trot them out for the real stewheads, the ones who sat at the bar because the bartender had to listen. She thought the suffering must have been about evenly distributed.

      Occasionally, when she thought about Paul, she found herself wanting a gun. That, she thought, would simplify things. But she knew she’d never use a gun, not even to threaten with. What she really wanted was simplicity, and a gun would be simple. She ought to have a plan, she knew it. Soon she’d be bumping into Paul, and she’d need something to say. She’d seen him several times already. He liked nothing better than to strut in public places.

      She sipped at the gin. On the terrace, the last table was standing up, two couples, tourists, staying over for a single night; they’d told her. Anne went over to say goodbye and by the time they were at the stairs she had cleared the table and pocketed the two shiny, hundred drachmae coins they’d left as a tip. She ran her thumb over Alexander’s face on one of the coins, another pretty boy.

      Anne took off her apron and leaned against the bar; she picked up her coffee cup and sniffed the gin, trying to decide whether to finish it or not. John nodded toward the stairs, at Myles coming down, looking sheepish. Anne liked how he looked, loose limbed and relaxed, a little sleepy.

      “Here for a drink?”

      “Sure.”

      “It’s whiskey straight up?”

      Myles nodded.

      “Mind if I join you? I’ve cashed out. John’s got the bar until closing time.” So they went out on the terrace and sat on the wall.

      “You look burnt,” Anne observed.

      “Hope not, but clearly I got some sun, and wind. I went for a picnic to Nímos, out there,” Myles pointed. “Not much shade.”

      “Take some pictures?”

      “Not many. Ate a good lunch and swam myself tired,” Myles said.

      “But not too tired for the walk up to Two Stories.”

      “I felt restless and . . .” He glanced at her and left it at that.