Edward Champion's Return of the Reluctant

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Peter and I stared, maws opened, craws cramped with bad Thai, sauce abandoned, teapot calming our nerves -- for Elise served the papers. No more piano for Pete, likely. No warnings, no early signs. She must have followed, watching our talk from afar. Probably agape when we swapped three twenties for something later, no bearing on her decision. We fell in with the din of a dive, discrete from usual haunts. When she tapped Pete’s shoulder, scaring two bejesii, I flipped over the porcelain cup and yelped, making water and first-degree burns, jumping from the booth as the manila envelope was swapped without comment or clarification. Our thin cadaverous waiter came with a damp cloth. Before I knew what the hell was going on, two gales knocked me over and I was alone.