Lee blanches. No, that's the opposite of what she wanted. She can see, yes, how that might be upsetting. She wrings her hands violently a few more times, then forces herself to lay them flat on the table. The ring glitters in the dim lighting. “I should talk to him,” she says apologetically — for having let this happen, but also because she's going to have to abandon Michael with these two knuckleheads.
She follows Sinclair outside, but keeps her distance for a minute or so, lighting a funny-smelling cigarette of her own. (Michael can't get mad at her because he can't smell it from there, hah.) Then she approaches him, cigarette held between the middle and ring finger of her left hand. “Are you okay? I am sorry I upset you.”
“What was that all about?” Zee asks, taking a long pull from her beer before almost spitting it out all over the table. “Oh, right! She's a guy. Jeez, I keep forgetting. Hey, you know, I might know some rabbis that would do it for you. I mean, even if, you know, they had a hunch. You'd be surprised how many people are okay with it when they see it's normal, and real. They're not in Manhattan though. I don't know what it is about Manhattan that makes a lot of real bozos. Present company obviously excluded.”