She bends her head—she is a queen tonight, and she accepts his tribute. As she sits before him she can feel herself, the parts where her skin touches her clothes, the hardness of her nipples, the tingling of her skull. There is an open bottle of wine on the table and he lifts it, pours her a large glass, and she nods her thanks. Behind the curve of his shoulder she sees Johnny standing alone at the bar, two drinks before him. He looks towards her; she sees his eyes slide over her and Nathan, then back to her, snagging on her with a question. She does not answer it—instead she turns away, to her drink, which is thick and red and looks like blood.

She sees the pulse at Nathan’s neck. His mouth, stained a little with the wine. The span of his hands on the table before her.

She drinks her wine and he drinks his and they speak but she is not sure, exactly, of what. When her glass is empty he asks if she wants more. At a certain point the bottle is finished. She looks up and sees that Johnny has left the bar without saying good-bye. She registers this, but distantly. “We could go back,” she says, turning to Nathan. “We could go back to my place.”

And like everything else this night, it is surprisingly easy to say.

On the way he makes conversation, but as the train nears her stop, the words dwindle and he falls silent. She catches him staring at his face in the window. They walk quickly, without speaking, across the park. In her living room, she walks around, switching on lights, while Nathan stands in the middle of the floor. “Do you want another drink?” she asks.

“OK.” His voice is low and a little cracked.

She goes into the kitchen, where she leaves the lights off. There is a bottle of whiskey at the back of her cupboard and she takes it out, pours a measure into two glasses.

There is a sound behind her and she sees that Nathan has followed, is standing behind her. He lifts her hair from her neck and holds it in his fist. He leans towards her and she feels his mouth at the place where her neck meets her shoulder. Then he presses her gently against the wall. “Please,” he says, “don’t speak.”

She does not speak. Instead she turns to him and opens her mouth to his.

THE NEXT MORNING, when he has gone to work, she lies in bed and thinks of him. She can feel him still: his weight on her, the look on his face when she was above him, the feeling of him inside her. At the memory she is queasy with desire again, and when she puts her hand to herself she is flooded, swollen, slick with sex.