“Oh, he’s fine.” The bartender was evidently in no hurry to mix her drink. He balanced a cherry on a spoon, held on to it. “I mean, job hazard, I realize, but this is exactly the type of bullshit I was hoping to avoid when I opened a bar on the fringes of a bourgeois neighborhood. Not dealing with this bullshit is what I tell myself I’m getting in return for ponying up this kind of rent every month.”

“And the attractive parents.”

He dropped in the cherry, placed the glass on the bar. “Well, of course. That goes without saying.”

She took a sip. It was cold and smoky, completely delicious. She wondered why she ever bothered with wine. “You know, bourgeois drunks are still drunk.”

“Wise woman.” He cracked his first real smile. “And you’re neither.”

“How can you tell?”

“No system. It’s just a guess.”

“Hmm, I don’t know. I think the bruise on my face is making me more interesting.”

“Wait. Wait, I recognize you.”

Sarah felt a jolt of fear that he was a former classmate of Leda’s. This was irrational because he had to be at least thirty-five. But maybe he’d been a teacher? A neighbor? “Probably from this bourgeois neighborhood?”

“Maybe.” He seemed slightly deflated. “Probably.”

“You must see a lot. Between people, I mean.”

He shrugged. “I don’t pay attention.”

“Somehow I don’t believe that’s true.”

“I drove a cab for a summer on Long Island. That was crazier.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh yeah. Sure. People need to talk.”

During the first of many pregnancies after Leda had turned two, Sarah had been invited to speak at a film festival in Glasgow; on the way to JFK, she and the Sudanese taxi driver had spoken at length. He told her proudly that his wife was pregnant. He already had a toddler, a girl, who was exactly Leda’s age. He revealed the due date, which was also Sarah’s secret due date; the coincidence was too much, and so even though it was early and she’d not yet said it aloud to anyone besides Matthew, she told the driver that she was pregnant, too. They wished each other well; she miscarried on the flight home.

“What’s the craziest thing you’ve heard?” Sarah asked now.

“It blends together. Y’know?”

“I do. I wish I didn’t, but I do.”

He placed both his hands on the bar. “I’m Alex.” When he noticed her reaction, he smiled tightly. “What? What was that face for? Do you have a cute expression for every thought or something?”

“What did I do?” she blurted, and almost said, I have a son named Alex. A beautiful imaginary son.

“You have a very expressive face.”

“I do not. In fact, I’ve always been told the opposite.”

“Not sure what blind jackasses you’ve been talking to.”

She was too flustered to say anything else.