Violence in a beautiful room makes a beautiful sound sometimes, and that is one of the many things no one warns you about.

“Go home,” he said, low, under the music.

His smile never moved; that was the part I would remember.

He delivered it as a pleasantry, the way he delivered everything in public, and only the pressure of his fingers and the ice in his voice told the truth of it.

“She belongs beside me tonight.

Not you.

Go home, Lydia, before you embarrass yourself.”

A few conversations near us faltered.