"You want something to eat?" he asked. They ordered two salads. Joe switched to wine. Isabelle started laughing more. Apparently she had all the money she needed to live in hotels, traveling slowly around a familiar route. It seemed like an hour, but it was probably two hours later when she pushed back from the table.
"Time to move," she said.
"Hey, it's been fun." He was letting go after the long weekend and was sorry to see her leave. She smiled slightly.
"How about a nightcap, Joe?"
"Sure." She reached into a small bag and handed him a key card. "I really have to go back to my room now. Why don't you come over in about twenty minutes? There's some Chardonnay in the convenience bar."
"How are you going to get in?" he asked.
"I have another one of these cards—keys—whatever you call them. Room 336."
"O.K." She wheeled away and Joe leaned back in his chair. It was dark outside. Rain trickled down the windows softening the harbor lights. He was tired of being alone. He stared at the harbor and savored the feeling of companionship, a circle of two in league against a rainy night. Was it Marx who said that the smallest indivisible human unit was two? He couldn't remember.
He knocked and entered when Isabelle answered. The wheelchair was empty at the end of the bed. He walked past the bathroom and stopped by the bed. Isabelle was under the covers, propped up against several pillows. She had changed into a white nightgown and brushed out her hair. "Good timing, Joe. I'm ready for a glass of wine."
"Coming up," he said, embarrassed. He opened the bottle, poured two glasses, and brought one over to her. There was a small table and chair in a dark corner of the room.