She leaned over him a little unsteadily, her drink tilted in one hand, the long spill of her hair so close to his face he could detect what he thought was a faint smell of gardenia. Surprising how perfume in subtle measure excites, suggests. And why should it really? “You’re so damn contained,” she said. “I hate people who are contained. It makes me want to uncontain them. Uncontain — or attain. I don’t know which I mean. What is it with you? A smug quality?”
