他替自己立了個規則：等那道藍滴到口袋的高度，就打電話道歉。開幕酒有點甜，冰塊在杯裡繞圈，他的影子先把姿勢站穩。藍色慢慢往下走，卻剛好停在口袋上方。他笑了一下，收起手機：那就明天吧。

He made a rule for himself: when the blue drips to pocket level, he’ll call to apologize. The opening-night drink is a little sweet, ice circling the glass; his shadow settles into position first. The blue inches down and stops just above the pocket. He smiles, pockets the phone: “Tomorrow, then.”