the meal lasts for three hours. lune and corin eat slowly, laugh liberally, and tell anecdotes with contemplative gusto. edmund and peter, who are used to eating on the run (all forms of 'on the run'), who are happy with fast food and take-out, finish their plates before lune is even halfway through his.

"order something else," lune commands. "it's on me, remember."

"i can't possibly," says edmund, smiling affably. "i am stuffed."

"have more wine," corin offers. "you should get a dessert. this place makes a good halo-halo."

"a what?" peter reads the description on the menu, and makes a face. "beans? in a dessert?"

peter and edmund stick to the wine.

their table is right by the window, and through the glass they can see freighters, yachts, catamarans. they should go to the beach, edmund thinks. they are closer to the equator than he's ever been in his life and being on a tropical island so far has been nothing like he expected. except for the heat. edmund finds himself disappointed by the grayness of the city, suffocated by its inhabitants' tolerance of its ordered chaos, and even outside, the sky and the bay are only bluish gray. he thinks of ads and discovery channel documentaries -- blue blue water and white white sand. he wants to live a little before he's killed.

i'm not going to be killed, he reminds himself. i'm not going to die for a long time.

edmund finishes his glass, doesn't protest when it is refilled.

+