“We’re finished.”

Tiffany made a small broken sound, snatched her clutch off a cocktail table, and half-ran toward the valet stand, her heels cracking against the stone, and the crowd opened to let her through the way a crowd opens for something it does not want to touch.

And then she was gone, and I turned back to my daughter and asked her how the cake was.

I have thought since about that crowd, and about how fast it turned, and it has taught me something I try not to be cynical about but cannot entirely unlearn.