The dazzle of the evening – fancy cocktails, lots of cleavage, rolled up sleeves – was eclipsed by the weight of  inevitable failure.

She took me to a french restaurant, where we sat rooftop and looked out at the decaying skyline. Ever the portrait of dark sophistication, she sat contemplatively in the embrace of the day’s remaining shadows, her gaze drawn to something beyond my right shoulder.

“There’s a building on fire over there,” she said, removing the olives from her martini. “It’s pretty bad.” When I first met her, she was, to me, impossibly unapproachable. I made up a bullshit story about wanting to adopt her dog.

“Is there a lot of smoke,” I replied, losing myself in her eyes.

“Yeah.” She lifted her martini. “People are jumping.”

“I imagine it’ll spread soon.”

She scrutinized the scene behind me. “Probably. We’re the only ones left up here. At least we won’t have to pay. But my martini is almost gone.”

She was right. I could feel an uncomfortable warmth biting at my neck.

“Do you want some of this?”

“I think mezcal is disgusting.”

“Are we in trouble?”

She nodded silently, took my hand and pressed her lips to my knuckles.