But before you had the toxins drained from your liver, you could come to this cool pink cocktail lounge, smoke cigars, and drink yourself into a hazy stupor. Every itty-bitty table was equipped with a long-stemmed goblet with its own pink fish, swimming around in dizzying, pointless circles. Jane was sure it was meant to be soothing, and probably it was unless you had the misfortune of empathizing with the fish and seeing the whole going-nowhere tableau as a perfect metaphor for your life.

Dale spotted her and waved, all modesty and apology. He was nearly half an hour late. She’d expected him to be late because he always was, and, hoping to give him a taste of his own medicine, she herself had arrived twenty minutes after the time they’d agreed upon. Obviously, she hadn’t waited long enough.

He approached the table flashing a toothy, lopsided grin and held up his hands as if blocking a punch. “Before you get started on me, it couldn’t be helped. There was an explosion down on Atlantic Avenue and that whole end of the city is in shambles. Three people were killed.”

How convenient and how like him to come up with the kind of excuse that exonerated him and made you feel like a heartless scoundrel for having the audacity to care that he was late. “I’m sure I’ll read about it in the papers,” she said. “Anyway, I was held up myself. I got here two minutes ago.”

“Oh good. Now I don’t feel so guilty.” He bent down and gave her a swift, sexless kiss on the mouth. Out in the real world—away from this flattering artificial light and cool maybe-marble floor—it was a hot afternoon. Dale was wearing a brown suit. As he straightened up, the scent of his warm body gasped out of his loosened collar, and Jane was enveloped in its acrid perfume, a blend of cedar, sweat, and Ivory soap that stirred memories of eroticism and anger. He examined her through squinted eyes, and then delivered his assessment. “You know something, Janey? You look spectacular. When did you start letting your hair grow out?”