“The Hyatt.”

“I catch my train at Grand Central. It’s a twenty-minute train ride to my place. You can catch a train back. They run late, and you’ll be right next to your hotel.”

“You don’t live in the city?”

“I did. On the Upper West Side with my husband. The apartment was sold a year ago. David was living there when I met him. I had lifetime tenantship, but David willed the proceeds from the sale to his sons, and I knew his boys could use the money. So I moved. Do we have a deal?”

“I have to go to the men’s room,” I said, and stood, holding on to the lip of the table until I was confident that the martinis hadn’t rubberized my legs.

I stood at the urinal, wondering why I didn’t lay out the facts for Glenna and wait for her response. I told myself that it was because I couldn’t predict how she would respond.

What’s the real reason, Dad? I imagined Alex saying.

I smiled, imagining the sound of my son’s voice, so full of impatience for any shade of gray.

Maybe there’s more than one, kiddo.

You’re in Dorkville again. She’ll understand.

How could she? I wondered, since I could barely understand it myself.

I want you to, Dad. I want you to tell her. Please. It’s not your fault. Tell her what happened.

I could do that, just blurt out the facts. But once I was done with the story I would have to return Glenna to her future, and I dreaded saying good-bye to her again.

Since Alex didn’t offer any solutions to that little problem, I washed and dried my hands, checked my voice mail even though the icon reported no messages, and went back to the table.

Glenna was gone, and I panicked until I saw her coat draped over a chair. She came out of the ladies’ room and put on her coat before I could come around to help her with it. She slung her leather briefcase over her shoulder and followed me through the arched doorway. No one was at the horseshoe bar. The bartender stopped watching the flat-screen, tore our check off a pad, and gave it to me.

“Split it?” Glenna said.

“I’ve got it,” I said, giving the bartender a $100 bill. “You paid the last time, remember? At the Fickle Fox.”

Glenna frowned. “You said you were done.”

“I had a relapse.”

Her frown curved upward until it was almost a grin.

As the bartender got my change from the register, Glenna and I glanced up at the TV. MSNBC was running the footage of the marine convoy that had been hit in Afghanistan. The talking head announced that three marines had died in the attack and ten had been wounded.

Glenna said, “The news was awful when we were young, and it’s no better now.”

“My opinion, it’s worse.”

“How come?”

“There’s a lot more of it,” I said.