I guess as I sat there, nursing a water after that drab day, I kept thinking about the significance of taxidermy. Of numbers found under a dead hummingbird’s eyes. Of Silvina and the video. It still felt like distraction or adventure. How exciting that she’d been an ecoterrorist. How exciting that she’d been tried for murder. How exciting that she’d had to fight extradition. How exciting that she came from a rich, important, fucked-up family … instead of just a fucked-up family.

I am not a pretty woman, the way people think of beauty. I had a kind of jock-like, horsey charm when younger, I guess. But a man approached me soon enough. They always do. It takes a particular type not to be intimidated, but it’s more common than you might think. All it really takes is ego.

He pointed at the seat next to me. Which I liked. Sometimes they put a space between me and them.

I didn’t say no, so he didn’t go away. Sat down, and his shoulder touched mine for a moment. He had some muscle behind him. About my height, a little shorter maybe, dark hair, strange blue eyes I couldn’t quite get used to. Almost like he wore special contacts.

He motioned toward the bartender, made a joke about the “boats of Brooklyn” because of the flooding. But some instinct told me he wasn’t from New York. Too much melody to the voice. Smell of a rich, clove-infused beer had confused me, until I realized it was aftershave.

The man ordered us both a Rusty Nail without asking. But it was a drink I liked. My father had adored it, to oblivion, in the rural way stations that served as bars, but his sins didn’t pollute the taste for me.

I expected the man’s hand to be clammy, but it was firm, warm, dry.

“Here for the conference,” he said.

Telling me, not asking. Generic enough. Didn’t care about specifics.

I nodded. “You?”

“Yes.” Not “Yeah.” Not another nod. A very precise and almost formal yes that made me realize his approach had also been precise. No wasted movement. Not a lot of motion with his hands. He was like the opposite of a hummingbird. But neither was he a salamander.

“Worth it?” I asked him.

He shrugged. “I find panel discussions boring.”

“Like watching drywall harden,” I said.

He laughed. “Yes, like that.”

I put his age at somewhere between late thirties and mid-forties. Something about the wear and tear that registers right away even if you can’t tell how you see it.

He had a wide but not unpleasant face. I remember thinking, with envy, that if he were an actor, he could be anyone he liked.

“My name is Jack,” he said.

“I’m Jill,” I said.

That surprised Jack into a half-smile, and he turned to take me in. I didn’t look away.