Al sat contentedly sipping his tea. “What a fine view,” he said to himself as he stared out the window of the cliff-side restaurant, out over the ocean, the endless succession of sweet blue waves. “What a fine place—I wish the girls could have been here.” The girls were Julie, not quite 20, and her sister Pat, five years older, and they were lovers, Al’s lovers, each other’s lovers, and he had been talking about them for almost two hours with his friend, perhaps the only man who knew Pat and Julie better than he did.

“So you really didn’t know who it was?” Al’s friend asked. “I mean, I might have thought with your experience, you could have told them apart. From the sound they make when they...” Al had been telling him about the time Ariana and Rachel had visited Julie and Pat’s apartment, and in those deliciously dark hours before dawn how things had gone sweetly crazy.

“I guess I could have,” Al had replied. “If I’d really wanted to.” He couldn’t help but smile.

“That’s marvelous,” Al’s friend said. “Kind of an Everywoman thing?”

“Oh, they’re all very special,” Al countered. “Unique, to use an overused word. But truly unique.”

“Of course you’re right,” said Al’s friend. “But now I’ve got that flight to catch. You should stay awhile, enjoy the view. That’s what I’d do if I were you. Have some more tea.” And then his friend took off, and Al ordered another cup of that Oolong.

The teacup was bone china, nearly transparent, and Al could feel the warmth on his fingers. As he smoothed his thumb over the outer surface of the cup, he thought of Julie’s ass, the curve and feel and heat of it, and he shook his head slightly, as if to disconnect teacup from bare bottom, but the damage was done, and Al’s groin swelled pleasantly.

Al was contemplating telephoning the girls’ suite. Maybe they could rent a cab and come on up. About a 45-minute ride from the city, Al estimated. It would take Julie and Pat a minute to get ready, maybe two if they knew how posh this place was. Just for a drink at the bar and a look out over that afternoon ocean, at those gray-white gulls soaring through sunlight. Oh, they’d love it. Julie, especially. Strange that they’d never heard of this place. The other evening he’d mentioned his appointment here.

“Ooh, The Bluffs!” Julie had said.

“Do you know it?” Al had asked.

“Not really,” Julie had said, “But it sounds special.”

They could have a drink, watch the rolling sea, and then maybe have dinner or go for a stroll along the cliffs. Al imagined a sweet sunset kiss. He sighed, having just about decided to ask the waiter if dinner reservations were available.

“Excuse me?”

A little man stood next to him. Something struck Al as unpleasant, slightly rodent-like about this fellow’s face, and he wore a mustache from a former century. His leather boots had pointed toes and over-sized heels. At first Al thought he was one of the waiters.

“Excuse me,” the little man repeated. “You are Al Mano, right?”

“Yes,” Al admitted with mild caution.

“Ah, I knew it!” The little man’s eyes gleamed, and he pinched the end of his mustache between thumb and forefinger. “Forgive me, I couldn’t help overhearing some of your conversation ... and I think we have a mutual ... friend?”

“Who is that?” Al asked.

“Don’t be gruff,” the little man said. “I wasn’t intentionally eavesdropping. Just a word here and there. But you see, I know some of the stories. Excellent stories. Simply excellent.”

The man cocked his head and smiled. Al wasn’t quite sure what to say.

“Do you mind if I sit down?” the man continued. Without quite waiting for a reply he pulled out a chair and seated himself in the place formerly occupied by Al’s friend.

“I was just about to leave,” Al said, glancing at his wristwatch.

“Just a few minutes,” the man said. “I have to be leaving in a few minutes myself. That’s partly what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Oh?” Al said.

“This place is really grand, isn’t it?” the man smiled. “You can’t know how good it is to actually run into you. Say, can I buy you a brandy? Maybe a glass of wine. The wines here are excellent, simply excellent.”

“Who is it we both know?” Al asked.

“And the tea, too, of course,” the man added. “Tea is so much more ... what would you say—refined? than coffee. Of course tea isn’t actually refined, is it? Maybe that’s not quite the right word? You’re the one who knows the words? Am I right?”

“Yeah, it’s good tea,” Al said.

“Is it Darjeeling?” the man asked.

“Oolong,” Al said.

“Ah!” the man said. “Yes, I should have recognized it. The aroma, and that special color. Oolong really is delicate, isn’t it?”

“I guess,” Al said.

“You should have another cup,” the man said. “Yours is just about empty, and I’m sure it’s cold now. How about one more cup, so I could have one with you?”

“I really have to be going,” Al said. He made a motion of pushing away from the table, but something kept him from completing the move.

“We could talk about Julie,” the man said. His voice had grown soft, wistful.

“Julie?” Al said.

“Our mutual friend,” the man said. He twisted his mustache slightly. “One more cup of tea. OK?” He snapped his fingers, and the waiter came over to take the order.

“You know Julie?” Al asked, as he and the man waited while their tea steeped.

“I’m glad we decided to get the pot, aren’t you?” the man said. “Isn’t it nice the way the steam comes out?”

“You’re talking about Julie Allen?” Al said.

“Isn’t she a delight!” the man said.

Al nodded slowly.

“Normally I’d have ordered wine,” the man said. “I really enjoy a good Merlot. Sometimes something even a bit darker, a Burgundy, a pinot Noir. To get us in the mood. Julie really goes for pinot Noir.”

“I didn’t know that,” Al said.

The man nodded rapidly, a chattering little nod.

“There’s something very special about wine, Al,” the man said. “Wine and tea.”