He comes over to your table with a glass of champagne. The tall, amber flute is fizzing with vitality, with meaning. It matches the ballroom’s décor, gilded in rose gold, and lit with intention. Inside, the black dots of suits and dresses become a blur—the same people every time, just with different faces. But then there he was, in the corner of the bar, the same jaded look, and you caught his eye. His face was the only one that resolves, his movements were the only ones to discern from the blur, and the bartender handed him two flutes.