“You have this way of—you make everything I say sound like a stupid question.”

“You were there and then you weren’t. That’s all. I wish there were another way of putting it.”

I stood again. This time the chair moved easily. Stella bit her lip. “I’ll see you at home,” I said. She didn’t say anything.

The restaurant door was locked, and I had to wait for a little girl, eight or nine, to fetch the key. She was shy. She barely met my eyes. I thought Stella might follow me but she didn’t. The little girl bowed as I left.

For two hours I waited. I waited without drinking anything, on the couch, with the television on mute, then turned up loud, then mute again. When was Stella coming back? I imagined how she’d explain me to Dora. She’s sensitive, maybe. Her life is in pieces.

There was a program about jellyfish, waving their glowing tentacles. But I was tired of the feeling that came from watching beautiful things. I got shock-eyed, still-bodied and admiring. I shut off the TV. I went to the fridge. I found a bottle of chardonnay—a screw-top, cheap. I opened it. I hadn’t drunk wine in years, but I liked its roundness. It smoothed the edges off moments. For years it hadn’t been strong enough. I’d needed something, always, to take me deep under—something that wouldn’t leave anything behind, that would leave me saying Fuck this, fuck it all, let the whole world roll off my body like water.

The first taste was warm. It wasn’t gin, not the flame-throwing, throat-stung burn of liquor. It took me gently. I poured a glass. Maybe this could be it, only this one, like undoing the top button of your jeans to ease the fit. I could feel my whole body rising to meet the taste. It was taking me low, so sweetly and carefully. I poured a little more.

I thought about this feeling every day. But I hadn’t remembered how good it was, how little it asked. It would take me to the old dark place—the deep sleep, the rest.

Stella was waiting the next morning. She’d made eggs, sunny side up. “They got cold,” she said. “You’re late for work.”

She was washing the frying pan in the sink and I could hear the sound of the scrubbing pad, the metal sponge against metal. The grating rubbed behind my eyes and sliced my nerves down their shiny centers. The sound touched parts of me that hadn’t ever been touched. I had a terrible headache.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” I said to her back. “You didn’t have to make this.”

“I wanted to,” she said. She turned from the sink. “I wish last night had gone differently.”

It was in her voice, clear as day: She thought it was my fault. I said, “You think it was my fault.”

She looked at me sharply. “You didn’t give her a chance to respond to what you said.” she said.