He turns suddenly, touching you lightly on the arm, his face in your face as he explains the atrium, the fluvium and the pluvium. He spends an inordinate amount of time describing Pompeii's wine: how it was made, where it was stored, how they drank it. You smell wine on his breath. You see that his eyes are sunken and deep wrinkles are carved around them. You are startled to see he is way over fifty and wonder how many women from around the world he has seduced this way. He is on the decline, like Italy, like the dollar, like you and you find his desire for you an attractive addition to this tour, like the ornamental frescoes he shows you. Donna walks ahead as she is anxious to catch the next train to Naples and you find yourself lingering over his clear enunciation, over the delicate rhythm of his fingers on your back as you stand in the dark surrounded by the plush red Dionysian mural, admiring how well he has played this moment. For a minute you wish he would leave, because he is distracting you from this fresco, the most elaborate so far, spread out before you like some unattainable feast. Then, too, an aging Don Juan pretending you are a twenty year old student seems strangely appropriate here. You gaze at the ancient figures losing their togas as they reach for something just where the mural crumbles.

Meanwhile, he leans into your personal space. The only other couple leave after observing the two of you from the corners of their eyes. You glance at his white polished sneakers and the zippers on his back pockets. You watch as he runs his hands through his long hair and feel endeared to him as if he is an ex-lover with whom you are on good terms. You picture him as a lover, his blunt fingers moving over you as his eager eyes follow your reactions, his timing that of a Swiss clock whose machinery is kept carefully tuned. The guide turns to you as if to make another point about the mural, the upcoming marriage of Dionysus and you look at each other with that suspended second of decision that has so often preceded a kiss. At that moment an alarm sounds and he jumps to the other frescoes where Donna unknowing leans into the sensor of an alarm. There are many flustered apologies, and reassurances. She didn't expect a burglar alarm in Pompei; he didn't expect her to ring it. You all part smiling, shaking hands. He presses a small book into your hands. As you run for the train, you glance at the cover which reads, simply, Pompei. Waiting for the Circumvesuviana to Naples, you remember: you are not on good terms with any of your ex-lovers.