“I’ll be a good boy, Helen,” he brushes a black rill of her hair off her forehead, tucks it behind her ear. “No rapid movements. Promised a mate I’d return this jacket in one piece tomorrow, won’t risk ripping it apart fighting some dickhead on your dance floor.” Helen chuckles: the crisis has been averted. John loves the sound of her laughter, the girlish, melodic trill she’d worked so hard to develop. He follows easily, and they laugh, and Rosie joins them, sliding an icy coupe glass, sweating with droplets of water, into the hold of John’s fingers. It’s silly small in John’s large hand, the liquid in it shimmering with an effervescent lustre. Instead of an orange peel twist, there’s a tiny origami glider pierced with a toothpick like a collector’s butterfly, balanced on the edge. John picks the little plane off and slides it into the pocket of his bomber jacket. There will be three more hidden there when Chick walks in.