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"What are you reading?"

I looked up at the girl, head and hip cocked like a gun, blocking the sunlight. How very charming of her.

"Stephen Fry."

"Oh! I'm very impressed."

"I highly doubt that."

"I mean it, believe me." An unusually blazing demand, made with commitment. My eyes went back to the pages again.

"I don't really believe anyone nowadays." I said, with a hint of a smile and a shrug, attempting disenchanted composure. She seemed to fold herself neatly beside me onto the cool bench, leaning slightly, lightly to her right {towards me}. I gave way a fraction.

There was a pause, during which I read -

...I gather that the picture does not make light of his suffering, mock him, underplay his achievements or present him as anything other than the impassioned Son of God that Christians believe him to be. It does that which art does best: it shows a human being to us, just as Shakespeare showed us Antony and Cleopatra, with more regard for human truth than for historical.

- and a whistling young gardener came around the corner of a white-flowered myrtle bush to catch sight of us. I felt, rather than saw her smile at him, saw his slow grin widen his face in response; a tip of his cap and he was gone again. His whistle dallied behind him for a moment, then was swallowed up by the incessant murmur of insects in the gardens. The sun was palely warm, the air fizzy to draw down my throat.

She leant over again: she wanted to see what the book said. I relented after a moment, watched her curved red lips make sense of the words, like a child, and her eyebrows dip in concentration. Because she was delightful, in her own way.

"Ah, I see. It is about religion."

"Only this part. And it's not, really. It's about a film."

"What film?" Her tone was playful, warm, and somehow slender.

"The Last Temptation of Christ."

"Spare me, oh, please. I can't stand religion. Never could. I think it's a cardinal fault of mine. Whenever I see those devoted, zealous acolytes or watery-eyed, fat, Jesus-loving middle-aged-women I feel certain I'm missing something. Something important, too - you see, they don't care about anything anymore. Oh, you might claim they do, that they might care more; but in reality, they're already focused on death. That's all the afterlife is. It's morbid, but it's fascinating, and they're in the afterlife already, in their minds. But I'm too vain. I like to feel the sun on my face."

I couldn't help laughing. "Yes, I suppose you are vain."

She let out a sigh, drawn-out but still feminine. I'm sure she was pleased with it. Quietly, she lowered her head onto my shoulder, and the light caused some strands of her hair to glow gold against my skin. We sat in this way, listening to the hum of the fountains for a while.

"Religion is the opium of the masses." she whispered presently.

Again I laughed at her; the sharp burst of it caused a bird to take fright from where it had alighted nearby. She sat up once more, regarding the spot where it had been angrily.

"I'm sorry, I just can't believe you said that. That has to be one of the most overused quotations of all time. It's not relevant, it's so funny-"

"Well, apparently you don't believe people anymore, so I'm hardly surprised," she interrupted, but amiably.

"Yes, I did say that, didn't I." We were both too young to stay irritated for long. "I'm sorry about the bird."

"It was a thrush, did you see?"

The jasmine tree we were sitting under gave a creamy, star-like fragrance out that made us drowsy, especially her. She stretched out, laboriously, as I turned to look at her properly.

Her hair was still glowing in the waning light, light fox-red, and she smiled as if she were granting permission for you to run your fingers through it. The clothes she wore were not flawless, nor new, but well-cut and pleasing. A red scarf was tied like a sash at her slim waist, jauntily, in faux-vagabond style - the overall impression was that of a certain studied carelessness, one that you sensed she worked hard at to cultivate. The aim was abandon, youthful abandon: she did achieve it. But it was a little too perfect, perhaps calculated, to be real. The very effortless look of it drew attention to where effort had been made. Perhaps most people would not notice.

"Sprezzatura." I remarked to her.

"Hm?"

"The act, or art, of mastery over facility, carelessness. Mostly referring to art or literature, something like that. And common in real life, too. Italian courtiers. You're beautiful."

"Thank you." she said.

Her movements were at odds with the appearance she wanted; she surged forward, her energy palpable, obvious in the abrupt fidgeting in her hands and half-hidden in her unconscious rearranging of slim legs. She encased it to slow herself down. It made for a curious sight to see, and it always fascinated me. Vibrancy allowed to shine in such gracious inches.

"You mistake me, though. I am all earnestness."

"I do not, because I can see that. I know you."

She closed her eyes as if dealt a killing blow, and leant on me once again. There was another silence. I finished the article on Christ. She asked a question, with her eyes still closed.

"You don't think I'm in love with anyone, do you?"

"No. Are you?"

"No, I don't think so. Are you?"

"No. I'm not in love."

We stayed like that until it had turned dark, and the paper lanterns were brought out, and I had finished the book.