The man runs off; Max glances at him, following his retreat through the bar until he's lost in the crowd. For the moment she's quiet. She has things to say, but there's no rush. Not between them.

Perhaps there would be, if there was something new to add. Perhaps one day Max will find the thing, the way to explain her choices or to apologize or to undo what she's done, and some new sense of urgency will come over her. But today, today, Max is just taking the next step in a long, slow dance.

When the man is gone, Max moves to the stool beside her and orders a rum and coke. "I could get you something, if you like," she says finally, glancing at the drink Anne appropriated when its owner fled. "Something better than that."