Martin shakes ice, covering the sound of not having paid much attention, really. Rachel is increasing her troubled afternoons here, to two per week, usually. Ben has new clients—Martin can’t remember what he does exactly, but anyone in San Francisco who can afford a house and a wife who drinks in the afternoons is probably in tech—and she loiters here while he meets late. Honeymoon’s over, Martin thinks and pours the drink, raises his coffee to her. They both sip and wince.

“We’re thinking,” Martin says, “of calling that the New Hat. It’s basically a Derby, with the bourbon swapped out for rye, little more Benedictine, little less bitters.”

“What was I saying?”

“Your husband.”

“I found a schedule laid out on his calendar.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

Rachel’s sip is sloppy and she licks her palm after she puts down the glass. “He has a regular calendar, right? And if you type in a code you can see, embedded on top of it, his own personal comments and schedule.”

“Why would you do that?”

“I couldn’t find him one day.”

“And his phone was there?”

“OK, I was snooping. I don’t know, I wanted to know.”

“How did you know his code?”

“It’s my birthday. Every code of his is my birthday.” She says this and then, perhaps thinking Martin does not believe her, says her birthday out loud, unwisely. Or perhaps she’s flirting.

“That’s sweet,” he says.

Rachel nods so determinedly her chin knocks against her breastbone. “I should be shot, for snooping on such a sweet guy.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You thought it, Martin.”

Martin is a little surprised she still remembers his name, through all the rye. “I promise,” he says with a little solemnity, “I never thought of shooting you.”

“Well,” Rachel says, her hands waving for a synonym, “arrested, then. Dragged into the station.”

“So what was the personal schedule? Hookers?”

“Flowers.”

“What?”

“Love notes. You know, no-reason emails. That’s what it says, no-reason emails. This brand of hot chocolate I like that’s Mexican, he buys me that.”

“I’m not following you.”

She gulps it, this cocktail meant to be sipped, and sipped, Martin thinks, by better clientele. But nobody glam shows. Instead they keep getting these couples in varying states of dissatisfaction. “Me?” she asks.

“You,” he tells her. “You are not being followed.”

“My husband has a schedule of being nice to me.”

“Well, good.”

“No, not good. I used to think he was considerate. But he has technology to help him do it. He doesn’t have to think of me. It reminds him to make his wife happy.”

“Whoever put that technology together is going to be a rich man.”

“Oh, you know who put it together,” she says, with another slushy sip. “It’s like he’s pressing buttons.”