I'm in Brooklyn somewhere, after a late dinner, and every subway station I go to is closed, the stairways to the tracks boarded up. I wander out to a boardwalk overlooking an ocean. I can see the moon not by looking at the sky but by looking through the dark, transparent ocean. The moon is glowing through the water. It's enormous.
The conversation deteriorates into peevish muttering. Again, no progress towards a solution or even an understanding.
In a crowded, noisy room, they find a window seat tucked behind curtains, where they press up against each other and whisper.
During the meal, he scrolls through headlines on his phone. He rarely reads the articles. Only headlines, which make him feel vindicated sometimes but angry mostly.
After the party, they fall into a couple of chairs and kick off their heels. The table is covered in used glasses and liquor bottles filled to different levels. They pour drinks and clink their glasses, which probably aren't clean, in a wordless toast to a night well-spent.
She walks barefoot to feel the rasp of the stone on her feet.
She slips an invitation under my door. It's for a dinner, a few weeks from now.