It was one of her games: a swindling seductress, giving clues, making him think they might lead somewhere, when after all, the thrill to her was the non-ending path, every anticlimax, the shifting labyrinth of gestures and winks, tugs and pulls, pushes and jabs that only lead to void in every sequence. She cared about the way there,--nothing else,--and so getting to a specified 'there' with her wasn't possible, any 'there's she hinted at not really existing, everything with her only another layer of the imaginary. The pink drink she sipped on seemed chilled and was slushy, some sort of vodka and juice, and she was getting drunk more quickly than she intended to, starting toward conversational playfulness more open than was her usual tell in a lightless room.