The wine bar has all the charm of a JC Penny. But it's client’s choice—and given that Milton’s (prospective) client is largely charmless, the setting makes sense.

Still, the lights are dim and the table they’ve found in the back corner allows Milton to keep an eye on the rest of the establishment. He doesn’t touch his drink, but his companion barely notices. He’s too busy complaining about life in the biotech sector. Milton makes sympathetic noises at the right moments, largely lets the man talk. By the time their meeting is over, Milton’s agreed to take a look at some things on an ad hoc basis, hourly work, to determine if he might be the right man for the job.

He sees the biotech oaf off with a handshake and the facsimile of a smile, resumes his seat and eyes the bar. A woman, stationed there for some time now, eyes him back. She’s working, clearly. A pro—someone who waits for the last man to leave the meeting in this kind of establishment. She caters to the lonely, the tired—men of a certain age who have given it all to their jobs; who may or may not have families, but are alone one way or another.

She shoves off from the bar with a touch of grace. Only a touch—it’s all too practiced to possess any real allure. She slides into the seat only recently vacated by his client.

“Buy me a drink?” Her eyes, Milton realizes, are quite stunning, even if they appraise him with something approaching hunger. A languid, rich brown—they make him hungry in turn.

“Certainly,” he replies, looking up to catch the attention of the waiter.

“How was your meeting?” Oh, she knows her business alright; knows her clientele.

“A success,” Milton replies. “What’s your name?”

“Maureen,” the woman replies.

“Very nice to meet you, Maureen.” The waiter arrives to take her order.

***

Several hours later, Maureen is dropped off in front of her apartment building.

She steps out of the car, a little weak, a little fuzzy. She must’ve had more to drink than she thought—and besides it’s been a long night.

She bends over to give her new friend—what’s his name again? Miles?—a little wave goodbye. But the door’s already shut and the car is pulling away from the curb.

Maureen straightens, shrugs, turns gracelessly, and stumbles her way inside.