[He's not there. Not at eight, or half past, or any time that might still, conceivably, be called around what they'd discussed. She must know how it is. What seems like a good idea, a steadying influence, turns into a second glass, for courage, and a third for luck. By the time he arrives he's broken another of her edicts and clasps a good Merlot in a crumpled paper bag (he'd seen the label through a shuttered window: one she always asked for. It seemed like the hand of fate on his shoulder).
It's half ten when he knocks at her door, smelling too heavily of mint and cologne and sure, by now, that he can keep it together.]
no subject
It's half ten when he knocks at her door, smelling too heavily of mint and cologne and sure, by now, that he can keep it together.]