She looked down at her glass. “You don’t have to apologize. I was late myself.”

The waitress came to the table. “Can I get you a drink?” she said to Hooper.

He noticed Ellen’s glass and said, “Oh, sure, I guess so. If you are. I’ll have a gin and tonic.”

“I’ll have another one,” said Ellen. “This one’s almost finished.”

The waitress left, and Hooper said, “I don’t normally drink at lunch.”

“Neither do I.”

“After about three drinks I say stupid things. I never did hold my liquor very well.”

Ellen nodded. “I know the feeling. I tend to get sort of …”

“Impetuous? So do I.”

“Really? I can’t imagine you getting impetuous. I thought scientists weren’t ever impetuous.”

Hooper smiled and said histrionically, “It may seem, madam, that we are wed to our test tubes. But beneath the icy exteriors there beat the hearts of some of the most brazen, raunchy people in the world.”

Ellen laughed. The waitress brought the drinks and left two menus on the edge of the table. They talked—chatted, really—about old times, about people they had known and what those people were doing now, about Hooper’s ambitions in icthyology. They never mentioned the shark or Brody or Ellen’s children. It was an easy, rambling conversation, which suited Ellen. Her second drink loosened her up, and she felt happy and in command of herself.

She wanted Hooper to have another drink, and she knew he was not likely to take the initiative and order one. She picked up one of the menus, hoping that the waitress would notice the movement, and said, “Let me see. What looks good?”

Hooper picked up the other menu and began to read, and after a minute or two, the waitress strolled over to the table. “Are you ready to order?”

“Not quite yet,” said Ellen. “It all looks good. Are you ready, Matthew?”

“Not quite,” said Hooper.

“Why don’t we have one more drink while we’re looking?”

“Both?” said the waitress.

Hooper seemed to ponder for a moment. Then he nodded his head and said, “Sure. A special occasion.”

They sat in silence, reading the menus. Ellen tried to assess how she felt. Three drinks would be a fairly heavy load for her to carry, and she wanted to make sure she didn’t get fuzzy-headed or fuzzy-tongued. What was that saying, about alcohol increasing the desire but taking away from the performance? But that’s just with men, she thought. I’m glad I don’t have to worry about that. But what about him? Suppose he can’t … Is there anything I can do? But that’s silly. Not on two drinks. It must take five or six or seven. A man has to be incapacitated. But not if he’s scared. Does he look scared? She peeked over the top of her menu and looked at Hooper. He didn’t look nervous. If anything, he looked slightly perplexed.

“What’s the matter?” she said.

He looked up. “What do you mean?”