You got kids? She asked. Mine are grown. Eighteen and twenty-one. Yours?

I don’t have any, he told her. Got lucky.

Yep. Sounds like you did. I got pictures. Want to see? She pulled out two grade school photos with a background of orange and yellow leaves. Front teeth missing on the little blonde girl. The boy had his hair combed to the side.

Good-looking kids, he told her as he lit a cigarette. They grow up fast.

How would you know?

Well. I assume they do. That’s what people say.

You know who says that? He shook his head. Parents who missed their kid’s childhood, she said. Hand me that whiskey.

She got up from sitting on the bed and walked over to the window that overlooked 24th Street. She saw taxis pass by. Cop cruisers. A neon sign on the corner flashing red and green. Pizza Slices seventy-five cents, it said.

He went to the sink and splashed his face with cold water. The water was always cold.

You gotta cigarette? She asked.

This is my last one.

Give me a drag, she told him.

You gotta hundred bucks. Go get your own.

You want me to leave?

That’s what I’m paying you for. He laughed. Just. Yeah. I have to sleep.

Gotta big day tomorrow? Representing someone in court? Have to teach a class? Wife to go home to?

Just leave. He opened the door for her.

She turned around in the hallway to say something.  She could hear a deadbolt locking.