She despaired, she would not see this man again. He was so very superior to her, secure in his love for his children, basking in his poetry. Beyond his own poetry was the world of poetry itself—he’d memorized countless poems, the most beautiful and profound lines of others were always at his fingertips.

His favorite line was from a poem by Elizabeth Bishop (of whom Juliana had heard but had never read): “The art of losing isn’t hard to master.”

How true, Juliana thought. The art of losing, she’d mastered at a young age.

Why vodka was so soothing now. Originally a way of numbing hurt, now a pleasure in itself, like a sparkling waterfall.

By day, work: her hands began to ache, sharp, shooting pains in both hands, typing for so many hours on the computer keyboard. Her forehead crimped like paper crushed in the hand. At last released at six thirty p.m.

Running through rain to the Wild Goose Tavern, where he might be waiting for her, a drink on the bar before him.

Or in one of the favored booths, waiting for Juliana. Already a vodka for her, or a tall glass of pale ale.

If Ned wasn’t there, it might mean that Ned wasn’t coming that evening. No excuse, no reason. He wished not to be expected.

Juliana knew. Juliana understood. Indeed, Juliana felt the same way herself. I hate it, where I am expected.

Yet if Ned wasn’t at the Wild Goose, possibly Juliana would walk a few blocks or take a taxi to the Shamrock Inn, where she was also known, welcomed. These were neighborhood bars near the university, like home to her. The bartenders knew her and liked her. Home is where, when you go there, they have to take you in.

And beautiful to Juliana, mysterious—the waterfall sign in the front window as she approached the Wild Goose. Or the flashing gold sign in the window of the Shamrock Inn. Red neon, blue neon—the several dreamy blues of neon.

Night, neon. Neither possible without the other.

The Black Rooster: farther away, on the state highway. She’d have to take a taxi.

Red scripted neon, advertising a German beer. Faint with relief, the simplest happiness, at last seating herself at a bar, this bar, elbows on the bar, rain glistening on her face and in her hair, seeing herself in the eyes of others as in the mirror behind the bar, attractive young woman, still a young woman, first name only—Juliana.

But few patrons knew Juliana at the Black Rooster. Bartenders recognized her, but were not especially friendly. Ned Spires wasn’t likely to come here, the Black Rooster wasn’t one of his places.

In a way, Juliana was relieved that Ned Spires wouldn’t come to the Black Rooster. Relieved that no one knew her here. Except she’d been hearing tales of an unidentified man in that area, reported at the Black Rooster and at other taverns, stalking women, lone women, women with long hair, like Juliana. And all of them young, with girls’ faces.