There, under a bare oak on a little grassy promontory overlooking the shoreline’s first muddy pools he allowed himself the luxury of crying in hopelessness. There was no one around, so he let go, he blabbed, then he filled his lungs and shouted in frustration. He had brought the disaster upon himself. He could have kept quiet about Thelonious Monk. There was no need to challenge her. A magnificent edifice toppled, a palace of sensuality, music, homeliness – in ruins. It was no longer about sex. This was the homesickness for which he had never shed tears.
