Somewhere out in the open water a ship’s horn sounded.

She said, “It was mutual but for some reason I feel I should ask your forgiveness.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“How’s Allison?”

“Doing her thing.”

Soft voice: “You two are really kaput?”

“That would be my bet.”

“You’re making it sound like you have no control,” she said.

“In my limited experience,” I said, “it’s rarely been necessary to make a formal announcement.”

“Sorry,” she said.

I drank.

“You really see it as mutual, Alex, and not my fault?”

“I do. And I don’t understand it any more than you do.” Ditto for the break with Allison. Maybe with any other woman I’d find...

“You know I was never untrue to you. Didn’t touch him until you and I were living apart.”

“You don’t owe me any explanation.”

“Everything we’ve been through,” she said, “I can’t figure out what I owe you.”

Footsteps approaching the table rescued me from having to answer. I looked up, expecting Ms. Chirpy. More than ready for another drink.

A man loomed over us.

Big-bellied, ruddy, balding, fifty or so. Black-framed eyeglasses slightly askew, sweaty forehead. He wore a maroon V-neck over a white polo shirt, gray slacks, brown loafers. Florid jowls settled over the shirt’s soft collar.

Swaying, he placed broad, hairless hands on our table. Sausage digits, some kind of class ring on his left index ring finger.

He leaned down and his weight made the table rock. Bleary eyes behind the specs stared down at us. He gave off a beery odor.

Some joker who’d wandered over from the sports bar.

Keep it friendly. My smile was wary.

He tried to straighten up, lost balance, and slapped a hand back on the table, hard enough to slosh water out of our glasses. Robin’s arm shot out before her wine toppled.

The drunk looked at her and sneered.

I said, “Hey, friend— ”

“I. Am. Not. Your. Friend.”

Hoarse voice. I looked around for Ms. Perky. Anyone. Spotted a busboy up a ways, wiping tables. I arched my eyebrows. He continued wiping. The nearest couple, two tables down, was engaged in an eye-tango.

I told the drunk, “The bar’s back in there.”

He leaned in closer. “You. Don’t. Know. Who. I. Am?”

I shook my head.

Robin had room to back away. I motioned her to leave. When she started to get up, the drunk roared, “Sit. Slut!”

My brain fired.

Conflicting messages from the prefrontal cortex: rowdy young guys shouting: “We’re pumped, dude! Pound him to shit!” A reedy old man’s voice whispering: “Careful. The consequences.”

Robin sank back.

I wondered how much karate I remembered.

The drunk demanded, “Who. Am. I?”

“I don’t know.” My tone said the old man was losing out to the prefrontal bad boys. Robin gave me a tiny head shake.

The drunk said, “What. Did. You. Say?”