I say okay and chew my pretzels, keep my eyes on the menu’s limitations: salad, soup, fries.

The man picks up his wine glass. I feel him move, feel him where he lands two stools away and swivel in his direction, take in his Patagonia zip-up and ugly outdoorsy shoes.

“Nice outfit,” he says.

“I dress for comfort,” I say and he laughs.

“Care for a drink?”

“Sure,” I say and smile reflexively. I look at the bartender, who is looking at me. I shouldn’t be drinking, not more, not tonight. “What he’s having,” I say and drop the smile.

The man presents his hand. “Henry,” he says.

“Nice to meet you, Henry.” We shake. My wine arrives, a sinister shade of red. The waitress slides a cutlery set across the counter.

“Cheers,” Henry says. We touch glasses, drink. I notice scars and sunspots on his hands.

“What do you do, Henry?”

“I was in finance, retired seven years.”

In music, film, art, business; the men I met with Jake, the men I dated after, were all “in” industries. I don’t want to talk to Henry the way I talked to them.

“Now I’m a car guy,” he says. “A collector. Vintage, European. Art pieces, really.”

“I’m in cosmetics,” I say, unprompted, and it feels like a challenge to what I imagine Henry thinks of me. Like, surprise, I can be a productive person too.

“I can see that,” he says. I take a deep drink, the glass all the way over my nose. “I mean that as a compliment,” he says and tips his drink in my direction. “Good job.”

I swallow, smile, think about my former life, the accomplishment of a girl loved by thousands. I ask him why Burbank, this themed hotel, made for kids and parents.

“Long story,” he says. “Funny story.” I don’t prod, he tells me anyway. “My daughter has these dogs, brachycephalic dogs, bulldogs, bad breathers. She’s moving to New York.” He sips, shakes his head. “The dogs can’t fly, so I’m the schmuck who volunteers to come out here, watch them while the movers pack up, then drive them across the friggin’ country.”

“My mom was a dog sitter,” I say, aware, all at once, of the wine, the pills, my bathrobe and bare legs, what kind of woman they brand me, what kind of message they send. “I love dogs.”

“I’m a dog person, myself,” he says. “Dogs are better than people, I always say.” He takes a bigger sip. “Though my daughter’s are out of control. They’re upstairs now, tearing the room up, probably.” We talk for a moment about discipline, then Los Angeles, his theory on California in general.

“Nanny state,” he says.

“I’m from Texas,” I say. “I know freedom.”