My shadow projected onto a kitchen wall by the setting sun, I am relishing its warmth on my back. The house is quiet. As I am sipping wine at the dining-room table, I cast an absent-minded look across its crowded top. Strewn around helter-skelter, there are candle-holders, ashtrays, books, lighters, pens, lose change… My face lights up at once when I spot something that is an unmistakable sign of my beloved, who left Motovun a couple of hours ago: a jar of Nivea hand-cream with its top tilting casually to one side. The poor jar seems to be in no doubt that she will be back any second now.