Chapter 59: A Savoring Extremist.

Sprawled on Andrew's couch, half-asleep, waiting for Andrew with a pit in my stomach as I listened to a Norah Jones CD. Andrew came back and walked into the sitting room looking over at me with a concerned expression on his face.

"What time is it?" I asked.

"Should be Ten," he said, standing over me. "Have you eaten?"

"Yes," I said. "You?"

He nodded.

"Where have you been?" I asked, feeling like a suspicious wife who just found a smear of red lipstick on her husband's starched white shirt.

"Writing."

"Sure you were," I said, trying to sound nonchalant and playful.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked, motioning for me to move over and clear a space for him.

I lifted my legs long enough for him to sit and then rested my feet on his thighs. "It means, were you really writing or were you hanging out with Capucine?" I asked in a sing-songy way that kids say, "Andrew and Capucine sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!"

"I really was writing," he said innocently. "How did you spend your