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Oh my god, its HER. My breath catches so suddenly I have to put out a hand to the wall and steady myself. My right hand of course. My left hand is holding my Champagne glass and although I want to catch her attention, the sound of breaking glass is not how I prefer to do that.

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"Well," Tom sighed, "what other romantic songs do we have for Valentine's Day? More Dean Martin?" The little piano bar was more crowded than on some nights. It had been a shore day, St. Martin. No big production show tonight, just one of those juggling comedians that seem to find their way on to cruise ships. Washed up, like him, flotsam bobbing against the shoreline, but not quite, not quite stranded yet.

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"Here you go, babydoll. Cabernet okay?" I nodded and took the glass from him, motioning for him to come sit next to me in the little corner booth. I know it's silly, but I couldn't really bear to have him sit all the way across the table - not when he could be right there next to me, his arm around me, his thigh pressed against mine.

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