Giacomo’s knowing smiles and attempts to engage them in broken English don’t entice them to dawdle in the Bar Gioia, not even with all the fidgety-fingered cradling of his crotch, as is the way of so many Italian boys. They know that the hike from Monterosso to Vernazza will take at least a couple of hours so they can’t indulge in Giaco’s flirting or linger over their sticky pastries and cappuccinos. If they miss the train they’ll have to wait another hour and that will certainly mean they’ll be cutting it fine. Shôn smiles his cheekiest smile and asks Giaco if he’ll be behind the bar later…. And so it’s agreed that they’ll come back and drink sciacchetrà with him after they’ve eaten dinner.

From the gloomy station building that smells rancidly pissy, the passengers that alight the train spill onto the narrow, sun-soaked promenade. Geraint and Shôn stroll beneath the neatly trimmed oleanders, the leaf cover just thick enough to diffuse the sun’s warmth and allow them to feel the autumn’s chill. Every now and then, Shôn darts from the purple shadows and leans out over the balustrade to ogle the few dedicated sun worshippers that lie in skimpy trunks on Monterosso’s sandy beach. Geraint would like to do the same, but it isn’t in his nature to be quite so open about his attraction to other men. Knowing this, Shôn describes the delights that he sees (or just imagines) in clipped, crude morsels:

‘Nice ass on that one…. Oh God, there’s one over there who’s got pecs to die for…. And this one here’s got such a packet.’ Geraint feigns disdain at the teasing and wonders if Shôn has plans to cop off with some handsome Italian. Then, for a few minutes, he considers his place in Shôn’s life, despite promising himself that he wouldn’t allow such introspection to spoil their time together.