propped against the headboard, still dressed, ankles crossed. Takes a cigarette from the pack on the nightstand, lights it without offering one to the man watching her from the room’s one chair. The evening out wasn’t icy, wasn’t the warmest they’ve shared. At least not yet. She was . . . Reserved. That’s the word he’s looking for while trying to read the tea leaves deep in her eyes. She inhales again but otherwise is still. Smoke rises through slightly parted lips, a small mushroom cloud of ending or a portent of a different climax.