“Sure. She’s a night owl. And she’s excited to show them, I think.” Something perked up in my chest. I was slurry, my makeup smeared, my hair a tangled mess. But the thought that the day could be redeemed, the promise of seeing more of the painter’s work, was irresistible. I kept forgetting to ask the man his name. That thought and others rose and slipped, the way the strap of my purse slid from my shoulder. He had a heavy, square jaw, eyes that were both attractive and disconcerting, so pale and clear, giving his stare an incisive, pointed effect. I felt a jolt between my legs—that old confusion Matthew liked, between art and sex—and wondered if sleeping with someone else might, like seeing more paintings, be another kind of cleansing.

“Where are you parked?” I asked.

He smiled, his blue eyes gray in the dull light. “Just around the corner.” I couldn’t decide if I liked the way he looked or not. “I can pull around and meet you.”

I paid my tab and met him out front, trying to ignore the way I wobbled from the stool. As soon as I got in the car I regretted it. I was going to be sick soon; I wanted nothing more than to get it over with, my knees braced on cold hard tile, my face on the rim of our toilet at home, drink a tall glass of ice water, and crawl in my bed with its cool, clean sheets.

As we made our way down Pacific Avenue, I asked him to tell me again what the paintings looked like.

“I told you earlier. A guy in a hat.”

“What about the colors?”

“What about them?”

“The colors are what make them stand out. At least the ones I’ve seen.”

“I can’t describe them. I’m no expert. Besides, you’ll see for yourself in a minute.” I could tell I was annoying him, but I didn’t care. He had been the one to offer to take me anyway. He rolled down the window and lit a cigarette. I wanted to ask him to stop, but I was so, so tired. My thoughts dripped.

At a stoplight, I glanced out the window. “I thought you said she lived. In. Longport.” I was alert enough to know we were driving in the opposite direction, toward the city. We were on the Dorset Bridge, the water black below us. The streetlights looked hazy and huge, globes of smeared light. I thought I remembered something Clara had said. One of her visions: blurry streetlights.

“I want to go. Home,” I said. “Please turn around?” He was silent. There was a strange drag on my words. I tried again, but my speech was worse. I felt ashamed, then afraid.