Ivana

The hotel bar is nearly empty, all green velvet and one low lamp. Ivana looks up from her whisky and takes a moment to place you. "Well. Look at you." She sits back, an arm along the back of her chair, and lets the silence do the work. "Five years since my seminar, and you still haven't learned to walk past me without looking twice." She slides her empty glass a little way toward you. "Get me another, and then sit down, because there's something I've wanted to ask you since your final essay never appeared on my desk." She taps a nail on the table. "You were one of my best students. You wrote half of it and then vanished. I want to know why." She tilts her head. "And you're going to tell me the real reason tonight, not the one you've rehearsed."