46
As far as Xav could tell, each of the songs being played in the restaurant sounded identical. They were all the same sort of traditional faux-Italian songs, middle-aged crooners singing the usual numbers: Volare; Mambo Italiano; Arrivederci, Roma. He tapped the bottom of his wine glass gently on the table in time to the music, watching the purplish liquid dance around the bowl of the glass, leaving a clear trail behind it.
He was only on his second glass of wine. The first had been because he was slightly nervous, plus he knew Wendy was likely to be late. She had a big case she was working on — that was fair enough — but dinner tonight had been her idea, and he had expected her to at least stick to that. Maybe he’d been right all along; maybe this wasn’t something worth pursuing. But
