You see her on the bar stool, her ink-stained fingers scribbling on a cocktail napkin. You try to catch her eye, but her attention is fully absorbed by the ruby-colored drink near her hand and the fiction she is weaving for herself on the sticky bar. You shrug, move on. She never notices. Days later, she will tug on a crumpled pair of jeans, find a torn napkin wadded in the pocket, and wonder what she was thinking…