Ray finished his breakfast. At table 14, the M-starting-named cocktail waitress was going around dropping off little clocktower-shaped Fiji waters. Safely at a distance, Ray could finally look at her, confirming his impression from the day before: she was, in fact, the brand of beauty a guy like him would do well to erase from his mental image folder as soon as she landed there. Her white hand brushing auburn strands from her forehead, her thin lips parting in a smile that sent delicate, lovely waves to the hazelnuts of her eyes, gave her the air of refinement that no doubt had convinced an army of less-rational men that she was a discreet beauty, the kind that requires particular sensitivity to be able to appreciate. Perfect, but approachable, perhaps even attainable. It was a game Ray knew better than to be sucked into. The strains of heartbreak and desire that had plagued his vulnerable teenage years had now been folded like a sweater in the summer and put back in his emotional closet, waiting. He didn’t rule it out as a possibility, love, sex, affection, but until the war against the feel players had been won—the adult world finally conquered, Tragedy averted—the whole thing felt like a particularly suboptimal use of his time, productivity-wise. One day, maybe. And anyway, she was far from perfect. There was a certain precariousness in her stride, not altogether graceless, but more impelled by inertia than one would have hoped. Her figure was too linear. Yes, maybe one day.