Small social circles result in visiting the same parties, result in a conscious decision to continue a friendship, going through the motions of cordiality. His mother would be impressed by his ability to act -- a skill he never seemed to manage with her. This unfortunate familiarity means being able to have a piss in front of your ex and imagine a world in which this is normal behaviour. The apologetic tone he uses as he finishes, turning on the tap to wash his hands, hides the loathing he feels towards the man she's brought with her. He dries them and tosses a careless smile her way.

Eat your fucking heart out, Harlowe Montauk.

He sees her again as the party disperses, stopping at his car window to tell him goodnight. Her fingers tap the glass and he pulls his legs in, making space in the back seat as he motions for her to open the door. She hesitates for a moment, and he shrugs, exhaling a mouthful of smoke. His hand reaches to the floorboard to grab the neck of a bottle, raising it to his lips briefly, eyes closing. When they open, her head is inside, then her body, the door slamming behind. She reaches for spliff he's turned towards her, settling into the back and pulling her feet up onto the seat beneath her.

Her mouth tastes like the last drink she had: whisky, neat. He can't remember what she said just before he leaned in, but it seems unimportant. His fingers fumble for the bottom of her shirt and he hears her moan against his lips, but her hands come between them, firm on his chest. If it's a game, he's lost, not sure whether to feel annoyed or disappointed. Sad?

"It was good to see you."

He stares silently out the window until he hears the door open and close once again.