He emerged pantless, in his jacket with the epaulets, a white button-up-the-front shirt, blue-striped boxer shorts as baggy as bloomers. He seemed ready for bed in another century, future or past: hard to tell. “Ah, the newlyweds. I’m drunker,” he explained. “I do believe I’m drunker. Scientific fact. Bed, I think.”

“You need help?”

“Kind sir,” he said to Jack.

The two men bumped down the narrow hallway. Just over the threshold Jack picked up a frame from a dresser top and said, “Is that—”

“Me,” said the man.

“But with you,” he said. “Is that—Dorothy Parker?”

“Dear Dorothy,” the man agreed.

“Why are you dressed as—”

“Costume party. Railroad theme.”

“Do you want your jacket off?”

“Why, where are we going?” But he shrugged it off. His shirt beneath also had epaulets.

“Epaulets all the way down,” said Jack.

“Epaulette,” he answered. “Nice girl. French.”

Dear Dorothy! Thank God! thought Sadie, and realized she, too, needed the bog, the loo, the toilet. She went in. Everything was white except the toilet paper, which was pink, the scented kind, and the toilet seat was cushioned and it hissed beneath her, and between those details and an actual photo of himself with an actual famous person, she could relax. Who was he? Not important. The apartment was his. She was alone for the first time in hours, and she consulted her soul: Yes, it was a good night. The photograph explained everything. They had solved a problem together, and that was a good sign, a fine foundation for whatever came next. She scooped some water into her mouth from the tap and realized she was still cold. The lukewarm water was velvet in her mouth, the mirror too high for her to see anything other than her forehead. She went to join the men.