“No,” said Nichols. “You’re probably more of a Saturday night girl, anyway.”
Perdita gave him a queer smile. It took him a moment to realize why: Saturday nights the networks usually aired Perversions. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I’m sure you did. So: do you really want to see my Wonderland?”
They ended up in a dank café with mismatched chairs and a laptop on every table. Nichols dated himself by ordering coffee. Perdita ordered one as well. She had never had one before and Nichols had a fine time explaining the intricacies of coffee drinking lost on a generation reared on tonic water and herbal tea. Outside it grew dark and at some point they shifted to wine. He phoned Tracy and gave her a terrible excuse. Perdita rambled about school. She was in a graduate program at McGill. Part
