“Painting and art history.”

“Like your father. Is that what you are? An artist?” Her voice rang out as if she’d made a discovery.

“Not anymore. I gave that up a while ago.”

It settled again. “Well, what are you doing now?”

“A little o’ this and a little o’ that? A little writing, a little farming.”

“Writing? What kind of writing?”

“Oh … I have an idea for a novel,” he said dismissively. This wouldn’t draw attention in New York, he thought, where ideas for books were as commonplace as ideas for films in L.A.

“Doesn’t everyone,” she said, proving his point. “Me too.”

“So there you go.”

“And this farming thing?” she asked. “What kind of farm is it? Where is it? How big is it?”

“Well, that’s a new thing. About a year now. I haven’t quite figured out what I’m going to do with it. It will reveal itself. Sarge, the man who grows that coffee I brought you, has some ideas. We’ll figure it out when I get back.”

“So you didn’t plan this whole farming thing?”

“No, it just worked out that way.”

“Is that how you run your life?” she said, throwing her hands in the air like a magician demonstrating that the dove has disappeared. “You just let things happen?”

“Pretty much.”

“That’s so alien to me,” she said, shuddering in jest.

“Different strokes,” he said, cocking his head and smiling, sure now that she was clothed beneath her dress. The flesh-colored panties were sheer and full-cut.

“So how d’you get by while waiting for this novel to write itself, and the crops to just spring out of the ground?” she asked, sitting on a lower rail. Her face had become serious now. Her tone was not unlike the one a cynic uses on the eve of religious conversion. Respectful but ironic.

“Travel,” he said, spreading his arms along the back of the bench. He crossed his legs, trying to make a joke of looking serious, then decided to go along with it when he saw that something in her was demanding to see that. “Read. Listen to music. Talk to people. Maybe take a stab at some writing.”

“How long have you been living like this?” she asked. She opened her palms, set to catch an answer.

“Like how?”

“Writing, traveling, painting …”

“Pretty much since leaving college.”

“Doesn’t this make you nervous? Don’t you ever start saying to yourself, ‘Time’s going, I better start living like a quote unquote adult and get a real job and settle down’?”

“No.”

“Don’t you worry about money?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because my needs are pretty simple.”

“What are they?”

“A place to live. Food to eat. Good friends. Good health. That kinda thing.”

“Oh, come on. If I didn’t like you so much I’d smack you.”

“Why?”

“Cause you’re full of it. Those shoes are a coupla hundred dollars.”

“But how many do I own?”

“I don’t know. Tell me.”

“Shoes total? Four and that includes a pair of sneakers.”