The difference was subtle but real, a sense that he’d shifted from slightly disengaged to slightly more available. He might tell a joke after that first drink, or shift his gaze from the window and meet your eyes, or respond to my mother in a more present way. “What kind of curtains?” he’d say, or “What’s wrong with the dog?” The martini seemed to take some core stiffness out of him, to ease a deep sadness, and sitting there watching them, I’d feel like I’d been holding my breath for a long time and finally I could let it out.
