Chapter 8

The air inside the pool hall tasted of stale beer, lemon oil, and old secrets. It was a thick, humid blanket that clung to my skin, heavy with the scent of tobacco and the metallic tang of chalk dust. We had been there for hours, or perhaps minutes; time had lost its shape, dissolving into the amber glow of the hanging Edison bulbs that hung like low-hanging fruit from the low ceilings. The leather booths, worn smooth by decades of weary elbows and restless legs, seemed to hold the weight of our bodies as we sat there, pretending to be just another couple in the crowd. Just another man and woman sharing a drink and a game of billiards. But I knew better. I knew the way his eyes darkened when he lined up his shot, the way his jaw tightened when he pocketed the eight-ball with a satisfying *clack* that echoed through the cavernous room. I knew the heat radiating off his body, even through the layers of his vintage suit, even through the thin silk of my dress. We had spent the night playing our part, the public performance of it, but the private conversation had been constant,