Without a word or a gesture, the Wastrel turned and staggered forth, out of the orbit of these two, having been thrust into it for a single purpose already described. She felt her chest trying to float up, but the blessed undertow, the dreaded reason why she was warned to never bathe in the ocean, sucked her feet down, putting the decision where it belonged, into the hands of God. He helped himself to a beer, then a vodka and tonic, then two rum and Cokes. . At the recollection that it was his, she seemed to fall through a thin surface, as one might fall through the crust of a lava into glowing depths. “Go to the far corner,” he said, “and sing the last verse of Les Petites. You love Ennison.
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