Inside, I took a seat at the bar, noticing that we were well past the afternoon lunch crowd. I ordered a glass of Sauvignon Blanc, and then another, and tried to determine if I should forgo having dinner so I could afford a third. I had taken to using my credit card too liberally and knew I had to cut it out.

A man in khaki shorts and a golf shirt sat down two seats away from me, and I could tell he was already drunk. He ordered a Negroni and assessed the situation—me. Even though I did not look up, I noticed him scan the bar to see if there was anything better, but it was just the two of us, trying to wash away the day. I wondered if I looked like a woman who had two dozen free condoms stuffed at the bottom of her purse, or just like a moderately well-dressed woman, alone at a bar in the latter half of an afternoon, drinking alone.

He made a joke and I politely smiled; perhaps I even laughed. He knew then that he had an in. He leaned over and said his name was Roger, and I could feel his eagerness for connection. He was balding, and he looked at me, trying to gauge my age, and said he was forty-four. He waved his hand dismissively, knowing it was rude of him to ask my age.

There was a moment somewhere between leaving Nathan in the hotel room and leaving Bobby for good when I had decided that the things I had done had made me a sponge for people who needed to over-share.

“I’m Evelyn,” I said, and smiled. We once again assessed each other, he deciding I was someone he could have sex with, and I deciding he was someone I could not. The bartender looked nervous on my behalf.

Roger said, “I own horses.”

He was starting out bold, and I appreciated it.

“I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who owns horses,” I said.

“My friends own sports teams.”

“How do you feel about that?” I said, sensing it was a pain point for him.

“They want the best for me,” Roger said.

“Who doesn’t?”

We were getting into our groove now.

“I don’t want anything from you,” he said. “I just want to talk.”

“I bet a lot of people want something from you, though.”

“Don’t you know it.”

It was my sense, and not from experience, that it was hard being rich sometimes, that someone always had an angle to work on you. I conveyed a sense of compassion for the uncomfortable bind Roger must have found himself in often—being voraciously needed—so he could know I didn’t want anything from him.

“I’m here for a memorial. My mother. She loved horses, too.”

“I’m sorry, Roger,” I said.