He nodded once, concession to a rhythm long ago internalized. The lids hung heavy over his eyes; he wasn't looking at anything but past it. “The only perfect car is one you can see yourself in,” he said, present all at once. His voice a clasp on the shoulder, his speech exact as print and with the dangerous sheen of wet ink. Then an eyebrow jerked up and invitation slid into mockery.
Satisfaction crumbled like ash.
He scooped his glass up and gulped scotch, gasped out: “I had one of those dreams.”