He draws in a breath, holds it, exhales through his nose. The line of his shoulders sinks; he reaches for the ashtray, taps his cigarette once. "You'd like that," he says with a trace of disbelieving admiration.

Don dislodges his gaze from her, stares for a minute or so out at the city. The lights in all those far-off windows. "You wanna go back down," he asks. His eyes are dark in the bar's dim light. "Try to throw me off balance there?"