"The spot’s reserved, but you can talk to me,” she says quietly.

“Thanks, I think sitting has been my downfall most of the night,” I reply. The night is reaching its peak, you can tell from a ramping shift in the atmosphere working its way up from the floors below to complete its journey on the roof-top, then ebb into the fitful sleep of the drunken and bored. “I don’t even know who sent the invitation.” She pauses and seems to consider a smile, but stops just short. “Oh, it was a group effort,” she says as an aside, because some dapper soldier-fellow whose probably not seen war yet is approaching to claim his spot. “You’re in the revolver’s chamber, and we’re sort of playing roulette.” She shoos me away before I can ask her to clarify.