She meant to have one. She had one, and then Denise bought a round for the table, and it would have been strange to sit there with nothing in front of her. The bartender knew her by drink and not by name. She had told people this was charming. It was ten-forty, on a Thursday, and she had work at eight.

The last two were after everyone else had gone, which she preferred, because leaving with them would have meant leaving. She was in bed by one and up at six-fifteen and fine, genuinely fine, all day. The next Thursday she got there at five to get the good stool, forty minutes before anybody else, and had one while she waited.