I consider what more I can tell him that won’t so humiliate me that I can’t speak to him again. I glance down; drops of sweat are collecting under my hands, which are starting to tremble.

“I see that,” he says gravely.

We both look up, and our eyes meet. The broken glass is closer now. “Help me,” I whisper.

He stretches out a hand and puts it over mine; a dry, callused hand that feels like any man’s hand. “I do have something that might help, if you want it to. Just a minute.” Jefferson lets himself out.

A bartender often gets asked to put together some remedy. What might he know how to make; and what might he have among those ranked bottles to make it? The hair of the dog? If only …