Day in An Ancient City 1972

We sat on outdoor chairs of a cafe in the old city, it was a bright, warm morning. I wonder what it was like here when this city was built, Abela said, it’s hard to imagine it. I nodded and put aside my book on Schopenhauer. She lit a cigarette and sipped her coffee. My parents took me to Greece years ago, Abela said, I remember thinking then how old things were. My father seemed to know much about it; my mother less so. I thought as we walked the ancient streets that many thousands of years ago others had walked here and bought at the markets that may have been there and loved and lost as we still do, about love affairs, and such. I lit a cigarette and watched her as she spoke. She smiled at me. Did I sing last night on the way back from the city? Abela asked. Yes, I said you did, you swayed with the drink and sang some Mozart aria, and that couple on our floor especially were not pleased. Why? Did they not like my singing Mozart? Abela asked. Not at one in the morning, I said. She smiled. What did they say? She asked. I gaze at her. He said it was disgraceful to be disturbing people at such an hour, I said. And what did you say? Abela asked. I said nothing, it was you who said that he should go back to bed and enjoy his wife’s body, I related to her. I didn't, did I? She asked. Yes, you did, I said. She sat there and inhaled on her cigarette. Did he not like my Mozart aria? Maybe he may have liked a Wagnerian piece? Abela said. He shut the door on your reply to him, I said. She smiled and sipped her coffee. I didn't tell her I had to put her to bed because she had fallen asleep and that I slept on the sofa. She talked about the city again and its history, bit all the while, gazing sexually at me.