The ticket you’re handed is tinted pleasingly – magenta, or maybe salmon, a blushing card amid the grey beton and indiscriminate lighting. Obverse many protests against the potential for you to seek damages in the event of misfortune, reverse an odd schematic of a car, already the most familiar shape on Earth. The color again: hue of your girl’s skin as she reemerges from the chilly pond and comes to sit on the rock next to you, a windless day passing on around you. You’ve ginned up the idea to leave the city a weekend, never so charming in reality as imagination, and, by 2pm the second day, are nearly at the nadir of mutual interest. Glum but undaunted, you pick clothes up and retreat to the cabin, whose air is welcoming cozier as you enter. Tuesday morning, firmly socketed back into her routine, she will pause picking up a coffee from the office kitchen and reflect on her first judgments; whether the listlessness and lustlessness that settled in around 7pm on Saturday was so bad in itself, or how she might reappraise that curious connection she could feel beginning to wind itself in, as you and she finished the first round of that card-and-whiskey game and laughed; whether that new visitor, room being made for it in the mind by sexual desire, the previous and sole resident, couldn’t possibly have been affection. You firm your lips together, skip a beat and take the elevator up, ticket slipped into jacket pocket.