Richard Dickerson

She half turns in concert with him, though doesn't remove her propped arm or shift her hand from her cheek by any great degree, nor make an indication that he ought to give her cup a splash while he's at it. Two fingers of whisky is more than enough for her evening, thank you. Instead, Fitcher reaches with her spare hand to fetch back her pipe and sets it between her teeth. A few puffs are enough to remind the bowl's muted ember that it's burning.

"Old habits," she says.