“Listen, Grace, I’m almost finished here. You should go home.”

“You sure? I can stay.”

“No, really, you should go.”

“You know, I really don’t mind staying.”

“No.”

Later, I call Rachel again. She answers on the seventh ring. Immediately I recognize the alcohol in her voice. I hear the television in the background. She tries to disguise her drunkenness but overcompensates, pronouncing each word with excruciating accuracy. She sounds like a drunk trying not to sound drunk. I know that soon she will dip into her pharmaceutical supply and augment her drunkenness with a carefully chosen pill. Depending on the pill chosen, I know that when I arrive home later I will be greeted by either a catatonic stupor or the ravings of a maniac whose lunacy is directed toward me.

“I’m just wrapping up. Thirty minutes. No more.”

I try to sound casual, pretend that I don’t know she is drunk. I say a silent prayer for catatonia.

“I love you, too,” I say. It is my catechism to ward off evil. The office door opens. Grace stands in the doorway holding a carton of take-out food. I hang up the phone.

“I thought you were going home.”

“I figured you hadn’t eaten all day. I got Chinese.”

After we’ve eaten, I walk Grace to her car in the underground parking lot. This late at night, the lot is mostly empty. Our footsteps sound lonely. Grace hooks her arm through mine.

“I really appreciate your walking me.”

“I really appreciate the dinner.”

She tightens her grasp on my arm. “You should come over to my place. Have a drink. Unwind a little.”

I don’t respond.