She was the sort of person who liked bar stools, after all. It felt easier to talk to somebody next to you than across, a slantwise intimacy in which you looked at the person less but could bump shoulders or elbows more. Even so she was astounded when his hand landed in her lap. It didn’t feel carnal, but architectural: whatever they were building wouldn’t work unless they put things down right the first time.

“You mind?” he asked.

His fingers were nowhere too personal. Just the outer part of her thigh. They were pleasant there. The bar balanced on the edge of the turnpike; she balanced inside of the bar.

Everything was a haze of smoke. Sadie lit a cigarette and offered one to Jack.

He shook his head. “Must protect the voice.”

“Protect it for what?”

“The opera,” said Jack.

“You sing opera?”

“I might one day. I’m thinking of going to clown college. I have aspirations.”

“Clown aspirations? I hate clowns.”

“Too late. You’ve met me, you like me, I’m a clown.”

“Aspiring clown.”

“I’ve clowned a bit. I’m more of a sad clown.”

“I’m suing you,” said Sadie. “For alienation of affection. Clowns.”

“Everyone thinks they hate clowns. But they’re not actual clowns they’re thinking of.”

“They’re actual clowns I’m thinking of. A clown pinched me once. At a circus.”

“Pinched.”

“On the.”

“On your arse,” he said, laughing.

She laughed, too. “Arse, is it. What sort of man are you?”

“What a question.”

“I mean, from where? Your accent’s American, but you don’t talk like an American.”

“I am,” he said, turning on his English accent, “of dual nationality. English and American. What do you call it? Aaaassss.”

“Aaaassss,” she agreed.

“Too many As and too many Ss.”

“My mother would call it a bottom.”

“Now that,” said Jack, “I cannot condone.”

“I do hate clowns,” she said wickedly, loving the taste of wickedness in her mouth.

That was the thing about being in love: you were allowed to hate things. You didn’t need them anymore. When the clown had pinched her, she’d wondered what it meant, whether the clown was attracted to her, whether she should engage him in conversation.

“Well, then,” he said, “I’d better be a puppeteer. No, that’s right, you hate puppets as well. What is it that you like?”

She thought about it. “Boats,” she said.

“All right,” he said. “I’m off to be a shipwright.”

From the end of the bar Samuel Beckett called, “I have a favor to ask.”

The bartendress said, “Keith, knock it off.”

“Keith,” said Samuel Beckett.

“Your name’s Keith?” Sadie asked. She was already fishing in her pockets for some money to slip him.

“In this life, yes,” said the man with exaggerated dignity. “Meredith I may ask them anything I like.”

The bartendress said, “Half an hour and I’ll walk you home.”