Despite all the pawing, they manage to hail a cab. It's hard to behave on the ride home, though. Michael stays pressed close against Lee, smelling her hair and carefully feeling all the parts of her hands with his—palms and fingers, skin and bone. The cabbie keeps eyeing them skeptically in the rear-view mirror. Asshole.
They make it home (and also, miraculously, up the stairs) without incident, though. It feels both peaceful and thrilling to be back in his own apartment. Sometimes the place still feels strange and frightening to him, but only when he's alone. With Lee, it's always liberating. Stepping through the door with her now, on Purim, pleasantly drunk and dressed like a shitty James Bond and planning on having some holiday sex, is something like winning the lottery.
He turns to her and takes her hand. There's a look in his eyes—a little bit like the one he'd had when he'd dropped her glass from the window in December, a little bit like the one he'd had when she'd brought him lunch at the office.