The restaurant was quiet.

Late enough that most tables were empty, just the two of them in a corner booth with wine and the specific warmth of a place that knew how to handle theatre people arriving after ten. She had changed into her own clothes — dark jeans, a simple top — and she felt herself again and also not entirely herself, some residue of Clara still sitting in her chest.

He ordered wine without consulting the menu. She noted that.

They talked about the show — briefly, specifically, the way two people talked about work they had both just done and both cared about. He said what worked...