The wise thing for him to do would have been to quit while he was ahead, and he could have returned to this subject never, or later, when sober and on surer ground. But he’s drunk, so he’s broached it, left once again to fish a coherent answer out of the bog between his ears.

“What happens to us is less important.”

Those are the words that fall out, so he is committed. But he can look at her when he says it, because he believes it’s true.

“Living here is a luxury.”