"Turtles stare in such a sad way," Lucienne said, as they went into the house. She spun her beret onto a chair.
"They know they have to die," said Raul.
"I like plants because they can't look at me, can't accuse, can't plead. They never fill me with a sense of guilt and sorrow."
At a window, facing the beached dugouts, she clasped him tightly, tasting the flavor of transience: she saw her parents' death, saw herself in Europe, thought of other lovers, other friends. Almost tearfully, she kissed him and said, "Let's get dressed for supper."
"You must be tired."
"Not too tired."
At supper he said, "I'm afraid I have to leave tomorrow."
"Can't you stay on a day or two?"
"Can't we meet in Colima soon?" he asked.
"Of course we can."