Chapter Twenty-seven
Lena Wasilewski raised one finger off her glass and the bartender moved effortlessly over to her. He silently filled the shot glass with another single malt scotch. After most working days, she stopped off at the same hotel, sat on the same bar stool, and drank two shots, varying the brand each day on a mental roster that she had perfected over many years. She would then drive to her beachside flat in the Eastern Suburbs where she had instant frozen meals waiting for her. Two drinks would keep her reasonably sober, as the last thing she could afford was being arrested for driving under the influence.
Only a Friday night pizza with Matthew and a shared bottle of red wine broke the sequence. Perhaps it was her personality that demanded an established order in her life,
