She began looking around the place with less selective eyes. “I know he’s here somewhere,” she convinced herself, since she couldn’t, wouldn’t go home to an empty bed. Not tonight.

She put another $5 bill on the bar, going against her better judgment. Maybe the trip from pool table to bar to pool table would yield a visual connection of promise ­– something to make her ready to leave. But not alone.

Another cigarette from a stranger’s pack. She’d stopped smoking years ago. Bumming is not smoking, to her. Maybe he’ll cup his hands around his lighter and lean toward her lips. That’ll be a sign that he’s the one. Tonight anyway.

If he looks into her eyes as he lights the cigarette, it means he wants her. C’mon ­ look up, look up, look AT ME, damn it!

Inhale, hold, exhale. Flirt. Smile. Be funny.

Desperation must have a scent. It won’t let HIM be drawn in. And would she want him if he were drawn to that desperation anyway?

Inhale, hold, exhale.

Finish the drink. Finish the smoke. Walk out alone. Wake up alone. And thank God for little favors.