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We take a table on the veranda, where there are garlands of light bulbs hanging under the awning.

I sat down in the round rattan chair with the soft striped cushion, wrapped myself in the plaid almost up to my nose, and I couldn’t help noticing that Sh’ereen didn’t seem to be freezing at all, even though he was wearing only a T-shirt. Thank him for that, because now, with a nice dinner, I’ll have a couple of hours of pleasure from contemplating his pumped up arms. Thank goodness he takes care of himself, goes to the gym, but he’s not one of those fanatics who turns into a mountain of muscle with no horizon in sight behind him.

When the waitress appears in front of us, Shea orders himself.

– Stripline medium rare, two pear salads – one with camembert, one with tofu, and a bottle of sparkling sweet.

He’s a vegetarian.

And this is just one of those “rather nots,” because while it may seem strange, I can’t really enjoy eating juicy veal and blood next to someone who loudly protests against eating meat. He also fights for animal rights and the destruction of fur farms. By the way, we met at an exhibition of one of his vegetarian friends, who had nothing better to do than to show the meat-eaters bloody pictures of slaughtered animals. I remember Sch’Irene saying that meat was the product of the suffering of innocent creatures, and I replied that in that case the vegetable salad was a veritable medieval quartering of cucumbers and tomatoes.