Yes, it was still just a hypothesis. That they were lovers would have been rather hard to confirm. Some weeks later though, after forgetting her laptop at the office and doubling back, there was leaking from Malavisi’s office the unmistakable murmur of very earnest fornicating.

Would she have investigated further had his door not been a little ajar? Unlikely. But it was, and the still invisible couple sounded quite earnestly focused on their own business. So Whitney drifted to the door and turned one eye to the narrow slit there like Professore Galileo to his crude but historical eyepiece.

Quite within direct view of where she stood stretched the divan the director kept in his office for functions perhaps just like the one she was then observing—a tight squeeze, to be sure, Signora Lucia L. arse up at the north end of the thing, arse up and skirt tumbled up her back, while Capo Malavisi kneeled just south and behind her, bumping her bottom at a tempo roughly tango-like.

If only she could achieve a writing rhythm like that.

The Italian Novel

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