He smiles. “Is it possible to write something short on that topic?”

I laugh. The conversation feels scripted, like we are two leads in a screwball comedy. “Well, it’s more about women having sex ‘like men’ and vice versa.”

“Interesting,” he says, taking a step closer to me. “I’m always the one who needs to be held afterward, and who needs to feel loved.”

The thought of holding him makes me feel warm, and I start picturing the two of us in bed together before my mind wanders to Anna, to a condom wrapper that materialized from inside my purse one night. I managed to throw out the incriminating object before she could see it. I think about intimacy as I’d learned about it over the summer: “Into-me-you-see.”

“Right,” I say. “And I’m out the door before the sheets have cooled.”

Before we part ways he asks me to have dinner with him the following night, and I accept. When I arrive at the restaurant he is sitting at an outdoor table in a sports coat, smoking a cigarette, his bangs resting just above his green eyes. He reminds me of the lead in a nineties rom-com. “Do you mind if I smoke one more before we go inside?” he asks.

We end up spending the evening on the balcony, smoking and drinking. He talks about his five years in Paris, meeting his wife during his first week there—they had each been at a surrealism exhibit at the Centre Pompidou, alone—the birth of his son two years later, who he describes as the true love of his life in a way that makes me feel both awed and prematurely disappointed, the plot of his novel, his open marriage and subsequent separation. I safely tuck away the Things to Be Wary Of. I ask follow-up questions, engaging in his stories. He doesn’t ask much about me, he seems happy to keep talking, and I am content to just listen. When we finally decide to order, the kitchen has already closed. “It’s so comfortable with you,” he says. “It feels like we’re talking in bed.”

The presumption of his comment is both off-putting and impressive. Later, as we say goodbye, I give him my cheek but he kisses my lips. He invites me to his hotel room, and though I am tempted, I automatically decline. For one thing, I know better; you don’t sleep with a seductive Latin writer on the first date, even if—especially if—you find yourself charmed by him. Plus I’m not supposed to be doing this so soon after my twenty-eight days. “Not for a year,” the counselors instructed. “You’ll be too vulnerable anytime before that.”