By now I am in total agony. Maud and Gabi are clearly touching, cannot but touch. The Mediterranean macho has gone one further, and after moving his seat closer to Maud’s, he lets his left arm rest on the carved crest rail of her chair. Right away she brings her hand to the table, to telegraph there’s nothing going on here. But then, as if there’s been a change of mind, it goes back into hiding behind the skirt of the tablecloth. Oh, vile, deceitful woman. I am reminded of Pagliacci, which we’ve seen together this winter. He’s the lover, she’s the harlot, and I, in case there was a doubt, the
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