“I like to drink too. Makes things . . .” She searched for a word. “Like, relaxed, cool.”

And so they had another drink, and then another, and Pat found out a few things about Carmen. She was born in Mexico but had lived in Texas since she was a teenager. She had been married, but it didn’t work out, and Pat nodded and sucked on his lip in sympathy. They both agreed on the weather, on sports—Carmen, like Pat, was a big baseball fan. In fact, everything Pat said or suggested found Carmen in agreement. They were very like-minded and very whiskey fueled. Carmen was from a different station in life, but Pat didn’t mind. He crowed about how he knew a lot of Puerto Ricans in the Bronx, and Mexicans weren’t much different. If anything he had an inebriate pride about how he had learned to walk with beggars and kings, and was Patricio Malone, friend to the Latin race. And now Carmen’s pink fingers were rubbing his shoulder.

“So listen, you’re married . . .”

Pat thumbed at his ring finger as reality returned. The glow became a thin gray cloud. Carmen whispered through a slick smile.

“It’s okay, I don’t care. We’re both adults, right?”

And Pat started to panic. His leg throbbed. He thought about Anne and the thousand questions she would have about the letter, and the package, and the extension of benefits, and for how long, and on and on, about this and that. What did Shapiro say to you? What are we going to do now? Jesus Christ. His head was spinning, and he had drunk three past where he promised himself to stop.

“Listen, baby, we should get out of here.”

“Sorry, what?”

“We could go somewhere else. You know . . .” And then her lips came close to his ear and he couldn’t make out what she was saying. Her words just echoed like the sea, and he could only focus on the smell of her perfume, and her cheek grazing his.

“Carmen, I can’t.”

“No problema, I just thought . . .”

“What?”

She sat back in a half pout. “You have sad eyes, Pat. I like you. And you like me, right? And I want to help you. Make you happy, right?”

Pat, drunk and unsure, fell for this. What she said seemed so clear and simple. And Pat wanted what was easy, warm. Her hand came back in a caress. Pat’s head sank into his shoulders.

“What’s wrong? Did I say something wrong?”

“No, you’re right. I’ve been sad for a long time.”

“I know, baby. It’s okay.”

Pat patted her hand and forced his face into a grin of assurance. She had smooth skin and huddled together with him, so Pat could look straight down her top and peek at her bra, red and frilled with roses.