Harry cleared his throat and fought to maintain his composure, "See, it's not fair, is it, my dear? Life? God? Fate? And even when we try to do something good like be a cop, there are no spectacles or feasts of victory, just one predicament after another." He quickly wiped his swollen eyes with the back of his hand.

"No, it's not fair at all." She looked away, for several minutes, giving him a chance to reapply his poker face if he wanted to. The moon was waxing and its presence was reflected in the river by the dim light of early evening. Diane wondered how many times he had shared that beautiful sight with his family.

Finally, when Harry's breathing returned to normal, she continued, "I haven't got it figured out yet either. Some people think it's all matter of paying the fiddler, you know? There's a price for every small moment of good."

"Well, then..." he furrowed his brow in concentration, "in my case, it so happened that a whole symphony needed to be subsidized."

She let out a lyrical laugh and smiled a smile that infused Harry with strength. "So, there is some memory of good hiding behind all that brilliant self reproach?"

"Yes, good memories." He sidled imperceptibly closer to her. "There is luxury in self reproach, though."

"Really?" she raised her brows, and wondered if he had moved closer.

"Oh yes..."

He loved to leave her hanging with an unfinished phrase. The expectant look on her face thrilled him to his toes. In so many ways, Harry wanted to take Diane to the edge and hold her there with those eyes and lips pleading for more.

He smiled at the thought and finished his sentence, "The luxury of self reproach is, when we blame ourselves we feel quite certain that no one else has a right to blame us. I'm afraid it can lead to complications like a displaced guilt mechanism, though. Or so I've been told."

"Very funny, Harry."

"Thank you."

He WAS closer. Diane felt a giddy nervousness building from deep within her. She never realized how much a man's aroma turned her on, and the combination of his jacket around her shoulders and his body inching ever closer was an olfactory assault of major proportions. All sorts of sparks and synapses were firing in her as if controlled by an omnipotent force.