“How is it?” Lewis asked, pointing at her plate with his fork.

“Good,” she replied.

“And the wine?”

“Good.”

“It’s a cabernet sauvignon from an Argentinean cellar, believe it or not,” he said, trying to make conversation.

“Oh.”

“You know who turned me on to it? Marlon Gaines. He sorta discovered it when Citibank sent him to Buenos Aires last year.” She held her face down as he spoke. “When I tasted it I couldn’t believe it was from Argentina … actually I didn’t know what to expect from Argentina … I always choose a French cabernet.”

“Yeah. I have noticed that.”

“A few California wineries have produced some decent bottles … but generally the California wineries are inconsistent.”

She wished he would shut up, but he went on and on about the frigging wine. She felt an urge to smack him. Or jab him in the Adam’s apple with her fork.

“I think Washington State is going to begin outdoing them soon,” he went on. “Look at what Beringer is doing. The first time that I had one of their wines was at this restaurant in Toronto called Jump, greatest place you could ever imagine, right on Bay Street, I think, and the waiter presented us with the wine list, we meaning me and Joe Strong, I don’t think you know Joe—do you know Joe?—well, whatever, and before I could make a decision, Joe says, ‘Bring a bottle of whatever you think goes best with this,’ and the waiter brought out this 1989 Beringer cabernet, and I couldn’t believe it. So … Washington State … look out for them.”

She didn’t answer and they finished dinner in silence. They went to the den and she took a seat in a leather club chair, and he went poking around his Sony ES system.

“Wanna hear some Luther?” he asked as he flipped through his CDs.

“Not really,” she replied, tucking her legs beneath her.

They went on like that for a little while, he asking if she wanted to hear something and she saying no.

“Wanna hear the radio, then?”

“Sure.”

He pressed the scan button and told her to tell him when she wanted him to stop. She listened disinterestedly for a while as the KEF speakers aired New York’s Babylon of beats, accents, and points of view. Then she heard some calypso.

“Yeah, there,” she said. It was a low-power college station on the Island. The host was a Bajan kid who talked a lot—too much, in fact—in the rhyming patter that has become the signature of Caribbean radio because of the influence of 1950s American rock ’n’ roll deejays.

Sylvia chuckled to herself as she listened, because to her the kid was a recognizable type. Lewis, though, found the kid irritating. The music as well. And after about fifteen minutes he hinted that he wanted a change.

She didn’t protest, but it rubbed her the wrong way. So she decided not to talk about her trip until she was in a better mood, because she didn’t want them to have an argument if they happened to disagree.