A glass of beer to drink—it goes straight to my head. I almost regret it: the world rocks even more, and strictly speaking, beer is not the right choice. The waiter expresses this clearly, wrinkling his nose when he puts it on the table. You should have ordered red wine here, for sure that’s what Magnus would have said, a full-bodied Bordeaux to go with the solid meat dish. But no wine for me. On the rare occasion when I do drink, it’s beer.

A man comes over, around my age, maybe a little younger, his skin sunburned, in a blue-and-white-striped sweater, Top-Siders™. A little pathetic, dressing like a sailor to signal his maritime connection to everyone.

“Can I sit down?” he asks in English, with a French accent.

“No.”

“Please?”

“Why?”

“Have you sailed here from far away?”

It’s been a very long time, many years, since I last experienced this. And it always made me angry that a woman, the second sex, can’t sit alone at a restaurant, have a meal, without being disturbed, without a man storming over with a peculiar and vague agenda of protecting her from her own company. And maybe also from other men, hoping that this heroic deed will lead to further enjoyment in another, more intimate setting, preferably in a bed.

“I’m not looking for company,” I say.

“I didn’t mean to . . .”

“Yeah, you did.”

“Are you the one who came in with the Arietta?”

Is he really not going to give up?

I stare at him with an evil eye, and suddenly I catch myself grinning. The combination of a hard stare and a confusing smile is fortunately enough, because now he starts to walk away.

“Let me know, then,” he says. “If you change your mind. I’ll be over there.” He points at a barstool.

I return to my beer. I would like to drink it in peace, but I’m unable to think about anything but the man now. He’s sitting at the bar doing everything he can to avoid looking in my direction. He’s attractive, to the extent that men my age are attractive. Perhaps he’s been at sea for a long time, sailing the kilos off him. He’s slender, almost without any paunch, with strong hands, thickly muscled and full of all the tiny cuts and injuries you get from sailing for weeks at a time, cuts that heal slowly when they are constantly exposed to salt water.