The Xpo was fun loving and gregarious.  But the seedy jokes might have been more at home amongst army boys than college girls.  So after one hour of throbbing music and coquettish teasing, John and Beatrice found themselves facing the South China Sea along Nichol Drive. They let their souls feast on the soothing rhythms of the winds and waves.  It was as if there were two different worlds, one at the music lounge and the other by the beach a few minutes away from each other.

‘Wild, weren’t they!’ John touched her arm with a grin.

‘Terribly so,’ Beatrice groaned theatrically.  ‘The best part was when the male lead singer sat on the army boy’s lap to sing… it was so funny just to watch that guy’s embarrassment.’

‘I liked the part when the female singer kissed the Indonesian man behind a silk scarf.  They made so much smooching noises.’

‘And the smooching noises continued,’ Beatrice was now shaking with laughter, ‘even after the man stepped out into view!’

‘The guy had to yank the scarf away before she stopped the smooching noises.’

They chuckled, and their laughter was carried by the winds to the four seas.  Even the stars twinkled mischievously at their merriment.

John reached out and held her hand, but she moved away a little without breaking the contact, so that they leaned against the cold night air like ballroom dancers just before the cue, held together only by the few fingers curled around each other’s.  This was the moment that he had been waiting for, the moment when the setting was romantic and carefree, the winds heady with passion and the sea rushing with joy.  He had rehearsed many times for just such a moment with Beatrice in his fantasies, when he would start by telling her that he liked the way her eyes twinkled, that he was fond of the way she laughed and that he was falling in love with her.  Yes, he was falling in love.  He could think of no one else when he hugged his pillow at night and when he blinked at the first wisp of sunlight in the morning.

But as he gazed into her shining eyes turned quizzically at him he could not bring himself to say the few simple words.  He could not help thinking about the other Lionels and Leonards, the ones with better looking faces, more muscular physiques, the cars and the money.  He feared that if the words escaped, Beatrice would laugh in his face and tell him that he was barking up the wrong tree.

You see, to John, love was sacred.  He had always dreamed of the few mystical words of endearment as words which he would reserve for the one woman in his life, who could gain his trust, a trust that his love would be treasured and returned in kind.  He could not bear the thought that Beatrice might deride its value and destroy its magic.  He remembered the story about Merlin the Magician. He would be devastated; he would be trapped impotent in a glass cage of despair by a love betrayed.  He was afraid.

So the stars twinkled and the heavens screamed across the South China Sea driving the winds into their faces.  Enthusiastically, the waves leaped at their feet.  And receded, their passions spent.  The moment had passed.  Next time.  Next week.  He would tell Beatrice how much he loved her at another time, he thought, when his head might feel less heady and his heart, less heated.

‘I think he had the last laugh!’

‘Who?’ Beatrice enquired.

‘The Indonesian man.’

‘Oh yes,’ Beatrice mused to herself, ‘the Indonesian man.’

L