Santino was drinking a neat brown spirit, maybe bourbon, as he flicked at the screen of his phone. After a few minutes, she observed him conducting a phone conversation with someone who was clearly annoying him. After the call, he was huffing, petulant, and he threw his energy into irritable texting, stabbing at his phone with his index finger.

Paula slid along the booth seat, planning to walk to the bar so she would be in Santino’s field of vision, but as she got to her feet, Santino received another text, shoved the phone in his pocket and stalked out of Protozoa at speed.

All through that weekend, Paula kept herself in home detention and barely went outside in the daylight. That way she could avoid questions about her newly blonde hair and steer clear of any regular chat that would throw her off course. She watched a lot of television and ate a lot of toast.

On her third night at Protozoa, Paula was worried the barman might recognise her as the woman who’d been there alone the previous two nights. Maybe he’d assume she was a sex worker touting for business. Then again, that might not be considered a problem at a joint like this. In any case, when she walked down the stairs she clocked a different guy behind the bar, so there was no problem anyway.

She ordered a bourbon and ice. It was Sunday, so the place was almost empty, and she had her choice of spots to sit. She followed her usual routine, feigning busyness with texts and murmured phone calls. There was no sign of Santino and she figured coming here on a quiet night was probably a waste of time.

She did notice one guy—a man with a receding hairline that slid into a pepper-and-salt ponytail tied with a strip of leather. He kept strolling past Paula’s booth, trying to catch her eye. She steadfastly avoided meeting his gaze, but that didn’t discourage him.

On his fourth stroll past, ponytail guy said, ‘You look lonely.’

‘I’m waiting here for my boyfriend,’ she replied.

‘Yeah? That boyfriend’s been keeping you waiting a while, yeah? I could keep you company until he shows up, yeah?’

‘No, thanks. I’d rather wait on my own.’

She flashed him a steely enough look that he tilted back on his heels then retreated to one of the round tables. But he sat facing her and she could feel his eyes still on her.

Paula was thinking she should go home and never come back to this dismal place. She turned to rummage in her handbag on the seat beside her—partly to avoid the staring of ponytail guy and partly to find a roll of mints to counteract the cloying taste of the bourbon.

‘Is that clown bothering you?’