Usual terms. Ripley makes a small, reflexive note of that, like jotting down a pressure reading. And she wonders in some dormant recess of her mind just what those terms look like. She can't conjure the image. Connie's lopsided smile is the first to mind.

Stringed instruments sigh out a pleasant, closing reverb. Ripley gives her dance partner's arm a squeeze.

"Right, call it even."