"Copywriter," he corrects, dryly authoritative, as if describing a self-inflicted injury. "A copywriter with very sore feet."

He looks first to the outstretched hand, then at her. Differently than before, intently. He passes a second in indecision, whiskey placid in his glass, an idea trembling in his head.

Almost as if to take her hand he reaches over. His fingers wrap into a fist; he knocks his knuckles three times against the countertop. Measured, sharp. "Know what that is?"