Never soused, noisy, or shot—she was never remotely sober. Sometimes, late at night, if you came into the bar, you would see her lips move as she communed voicelessly with whatever shades or hallucinations accompanied the thirteenth or fourteenth Martini. Occasionally, in a moment of clarity, she would recognize this person or that—a waiter, the manager, Ricky, myself. She would nod regally then, wish you good morning, afternoon, or evening—approximately according to the time—and flick her fingers flirtatiously.
She never bothered anybody.
She was not bothering anybody now.
She was sitting at her regular table, wearing a bright, vacant smile, and stuffing matches into her nose.
She had placed twenty or thirty when I spotted her.
She picked up another and delicately inserted it, pressing it up until its pink tip came even with the rest.
"Curious," I said.
Marcia and Paul craned their necks. They watched awhile.
"I wonder how many it will hold," Paul said.
"Another half dozen, I should think. She has a bit more room on the right side."