“Not at all.”

“Did it scare you?” she said. Interest rekindled in her eyes. She liked it that he was a man who withheld facts, who could make love, eat dinner, consider dancing and still keep all this to himself. She liked it that he would fight another man. Come to blows.

“It did scare me,” Wales said. “But the thing I remember, and I don’t remember very much, is how his hand felt when it hit my hand. There was terrible force in it. It wasn’t like anything I’d ever felt. It was need and desperation at one time. It was attractive. I’m sure I won’t ever forget it.”

Wales took a sip of his wine and stared at her. All of this had happened to him two months ago, when he first came back to America. Not tonight. He hadn’t fought such a man at all, but had been hit as he’d said and felt about it the way he’d just told her. Only, not now. He wished, for an instant, that he could feel that force again. How satisfying that had been. The certainty. She liked this story. Perhaps it would fix something.

“Are you sure you’re not hurt?” Jena said, folding her napkin, her eyes lowered.

“Oh no,” Wales said. “I’m not hurt. I’m perfectly fine.”

“You’re lucky to be alive, is what you are,” she said, and glanced at him as her eyes sought the waiter.

“I know,” Wales said. “I’ll add it to my list of lucky things.”

On the street, in front of The Drake, they stopped near the busy corner at Michigan, where taxis turned and idled past. It was after midnight, and seemed warmer. The wind had settled. In the curb gutters, ice was turning to murky water. The hotel glowed golden in the night above them.

They simply stood. Wales looked up the side street toward the lake as if he planned to hail a taxi.

“I’ll be going home in the morning,” she said and smiled at him, pulled her hair back on one side and held it there.

“Home, home,” Wales said. “I’ll be going too, then.” He wished he could stay longer. He felt her room key card still in his pocket.