He sat opposite her staring at the table between them, the dog-ends in the ashtray, the way one of the table legs didn't quite meet the balcony tiles. The night breeze ruffled the net curtains. The light from the hotel room fell across the side of her shoulders and face.
"So," he said.
He leaned his head back to blow smoke high into the dark sky. A fat moth flapped at the windows, clicking wings as it skittered down the glass. He swung his foot at it, missed.
"Leave it," she said. "It's not hurting you." She shifted in her chair, smoothed a hand across her dress. The breeze whipped up again, carrying the hush of the sea. He looked over to the village, the few diamonds of light on the mountainside. The chime of midnight bells tumbled down from the mountain.
"Hear the irony?" he said. Gas hissed from the lighter as he lit a cigarette. He thought of apologising.
"You should give up, Harry. You're supposed to stop once you hit thirty."
"Maybe tomorrow. Tonight, I feel I've earned the right. Where's the wine?"
"Inside. Listen." She reached a hand across the table. "We can talk about this, or I can sit here and watch you get drunk. I know which I'd rather do."
"Or you could get drunk with me. Oh. Sorry. I forgot."
She withdrew her hand, pulled softly on a strand of her hair. A drunken man's shout, a cheer, perhaps, drifted from the street below, followed by the echo of two distant answers.
"I'm sorry, Lou," he said. A car horn blared in the darkness. He ground his cigarette into the ashtray, watched the few escaping embers fade from red to black.
Her chair rattled backward across the tiles as she stood up. She rested her arms on the thick wooden fence circling the balcony, looked out at the sea. The breeze teased the hem of her summer dress. The light falling through the glass and onto the balcony lit her feet.
"No," she said, not turning round. "I'm sorry."
"What are you sorry for? Being honest with me?"
"I'm sorry because I've hurt you." She steepled her hands then let them dangle over the edge.
He ran his fingers upward across his chin, bristling the ragged growth. "Yes," he said, finally. "Yes, you have."
"Do you hate me, Harry?"
"No. But I hate this conversation." He wanted the words to come out defiant and proud but the last word nearly cracked as it left his mouth. He returned with a bottle of wine and one glass. She stayed leaning against the balcony fence, looking out on darkness. He poured a haphazard glass, sipped it, grimaced.
"Jesus. I should save this to pour on my chips." He laughed once, coughed, listened to the sea, the birds. "So what's stopping you? What's wrong with this picture?"
"I didn't say no, Harry."
"And you didn't say yes."
"You know that's not the same thing."
"Don't I make you happy?" He fumbled in his pocket for the cigarette lighter. His eyes were closed.
"Yes."
"That's not enough?"
She breathed out, lowered her head as though looking at the street below. Amber light haloed her hair. "Sometimes, it is."
He exhaled loudly, shook his head. "What kind of answer's that?"
"An honest one." She turned toward him. "Everything's so simple to you. There's your wife —"
"My ex-wife."
"Your ex-wife once you sort out the paperwork. There's Will."
"Will likes you. He thinks you're fun."
"Because you tell him I'm a friend. Tell him I'm his new mother and see how that goes down. See how much fun he thinks I am when I'm nagging him to do homework or telling him to switch off his games machine and get some exercise."
"We work through that together, Lou, the three of us."
"What about my job? They could move me."
"I'd come with you."
"And do what? And what about Will? It's just not that easy."
He drained his glass of wine, filled it halfway.
"I'm tired, Harry. Can we talk about this tomorrow?"
He nodded. He didn't come on holiday to beg. The way he was feeling, the number of thoughts chasing themselves, he could drink all night and stay sober. He pulled himself up, embraced her. Her cheek against his face was hot and damp. She smelled sweet, like oranges.
"Go on," he said. She went inside.
He fished another cigarette from his pocket and leaned out over the balcony. The hotel room went dark. He took the soft packet of cigarettes from his pocket and squeezed them until he felt the paper break, tobacco wriggling under his fingers, then he threw them over the balcony. No more cigarettes. That might swing it.