own?”
“Yeah, what’s a pretty girl like me doing drinking alone? Answer, I’m keeping company with this glass. We’re getting along very well, he and I. And while you’re at it, what’s a nice girl like me doing in a place like this?”
He laughs again, then puts his drink down; it makes almost no noise as it touches the counter. “You are pretty, you know.”
I open my mouth to say something, and find it empty of words. My drink is heavy in my hand, and I set it down with a thud and bury my fingers in my hair. “Look,” I say. “I don’t know if I’m drunk enough to let you pick me up. You seem like a nice guy, but I’m hard work even when I’m sober, and I’ve had a bad day.”
“You’re not that hard work,” he says. “What went wrong?”
I close my eyes, open them. Still in one piece. “Someone’s injured, and it’s my fault. I should have kept a better eye out for him, and I didn’t, and now he’s in the hospital.”
“That’s hard,” he says.
I look up at him. “Aren’t you going to say you’re sure it wasn’t my fault?”
He has a nice look on his face, sympathetic but not deadweight. “I wasn’t there. It might even have been. But so what, we all make mistakes.”
“Yeah,” I mumble, “but your mistakes make you late for appointments. Mine put people in intensive care.”
“I’m sorry.” He pushes my drink toward me, and then makes a little gesture with his fingers. I look toward where he’s pointing, and see that I must really be drunk. I’ve left my sleeve rolled up, and the scar is uncovered for the world to see.
“Oh God,” I say. My hand flies to cover it, and he reaches out to pull my sleeve down. I let him. His fingers skim my wrist. He stops with the sleeve pulled halfway down, and then runs his fingers over the scar.
“Poor girl,” he says. “That must have hurt.”
I clench my fist. “You’re wasting your time, lover boy,” I say. “It’s scar tissue. It’s dead flesh. I can’t feel it.”
His hand opens, and cups around my wrist.
“Don’t,” I say.
“Are you all right?”
“No. I’m not all right. Look, whatever your name is. I think you’re trying to pick me up. I’d like to. But you’d start hating me two minutes afterward, and I don’t want to have to watch your face when you try to work out a way to get rid of me. So if you’re looking to get laid, I really think you should try someone else.”
He gives half a laugh, then stops. “I’m just talking to you,” he says, and his hand comes gently off my arm. “Anyway, my name’s Paul, Paul Kelsey.”
I jolt in my chair, just manage to stop myself spitting out my whisky. The amount I’ve drunk suddenly becomes a problem. “Since when?” is what I come out with.
“Since I was baptized…What’s the matter?”
“I know you.” My voice is tripping over its words. “You’re the guy sent me that e-mail about my wino, you’re a social worker. What you doing in my bar?”
He leans his head around to get a look at me. “Are you—are you Lola Galley?”
“Yeah. Oh God.” I put my head on my arms, letting the mess on the bar stain my sleeves. “We’re s’posed to work together.”
“You sent me that funny e-mail, didn’t you?” he says, removing my drink to a safe distance where I can’t knock it over.
“Funny? It was dreadful. It was—unprofessional.” I get the word out. “Why didn’t you write back and put me in my place, eh?”
“Are you kidding? It’s the first time I’ve ever heard of anyone getting a message from anyone in DORLA who assumed they were on the same side.”
“Oh.” I can’t figure that out. “Well, we’re not.”
He drinks some of his wine. “Why not?”
“Dunno. Just not. Probably.”
“Can I suggest that you drink some water?”
“No. I’m researching our case. Looking at it from our client’s point of view. Please let me be drunk, I don’t want to be sober just now.”
“Really, I couldn’t tell.
“Yeah, what’s a pretty girl like me doing drinking alone? Answer, I’m keeping company with this glass. We’re getting along very well, he and I. And while you’re at it, what’s a nice girl like me doing in a place like this?”
He laughs again, then puts his drink down; it makes almost no noise as it touches the counter. “You are pretty, you know.”
I open my mouth to say something, and find it empty of words. My drink is heavy in my hand, and I set it down with a thud and bury my fingers in my hair. “Look,” I say. “I don’t know if I’m drunk enough to let you pick me up. You seem like a nice guy, but I’m hard work even when I’m sober, and I’ve had a bad day.”
“You’re not that hard work,” he says. “What went wrong?”
I close my eyes, open them. Still in one piece. “Someone’s injured, and it’s my fault. I should have kept a better eye out for him, and I didn’t, and now he’s in the hospital.”
“That’s hard,” he says.
I look up at him. “Aren’t you going to say you’re sure it wasn’t my fault?”
He has a nice look on his face, sympathetic but not deadweight. “I wasn’t there. It might even have been. But so what, we all make mistakes.”
“Yeah,” I mumble, “but your mistakes make you late for appointments. Mine put people in intensive care.”
“I’m sorry.” He pushes my drink toward me, and then makes a little gesture with his fingers. I look toward where he’s pointing, and see that I must really be drunk. I’ve left my sleeve rolled up, and the scar is uncovered for the world to see.
“Oh God,” I say. My hand flies to cover it, and he reaches out to pull my sleeve down. I let him. His fingers skim my wrist. He stops with the sleeve pulled halfway down, and then runs his fingers over the scar.
“Poor girl,” he says. “That must have hurt.”
I clench my fist. “You’re wasting your time, lover boy,” I say. “It’s scar tissue. It’s dead flesh. I can’t feel it.”
His hand opens, and cups around my wrist.
“Don’t,” I say.
“Are you all right?”
“No. I’m not all right. Look, whatever your name is. I think you’re trying to pick me up. I’d like to. But you’d start hating me two minutes afterward, and I don’t want to have to watch your face when you try to work out a way to get rid of me. So if you’re looking to get laid, I really think you should try someone else.”
He gives half a laugh, then stops. “I’m just talking to you,” he says, and his hand comes gently off my arm. “Anyway, my name’s Paul, Paul Kelsey.”
I jolt in my chair, just manage to stop myself spitting out my whisky. The amount I’ve drunk suddenly becomes a problem. “Since when?” is what I come out with.
“Since I was baptized…What’s the matter?”
“I know you.” My voice is tripping over its words. “You’re the guy sent me that e-mail about my wino, you’re a social worker. What you doing in my bar?”
He leans his head around to get a look at me. “Are you—are you Lola Galley?”
“Yeah. Oh God.” I put my head on my arms, letting the mess on the bar stain my sleeves. “We’re s’posed to work together.”
“You sent me that funny e-mail, didn’t you?” he says, removing my drink to a safe distance where I can’t knock it over.
“Funny? It was dreadful. It was—unprofessional.” I get the word out. “Why didn’t you write back and put me in my place, eh?”
“Are you kidding? It’s the first time I’ve ever heard of anyone getting a message from anyone in DORLA who assumed they were on the same side.”
“Oh.” I can’t figure that out. “Well, we’re not.”
He drinks some of his wine. “Why not?”
“Dunno. Just not. Probably.”
“Can I suggest that you drink some water?”
“No. I’m researching our case. Looking at it from our client’s point of view. Please let me be drunk, I don’t want to be sober just now.”
“Really, I couldn’t tell.
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