Jennifer Melfi brushed away a few tears as Jason and his new wife, Samhita, left the parking lot under a shower of rice. Mostly, she was relieved. Things had gone off without any major hitches, despite the fact that the bride's mother had gotten into a dispute with the photographer – he was taking too many pictures of the bride's second cousin, a professional model, and too few of the bride – and things had taken an ugly turn. Melfi felt grateful to have had a son. She could have born the pressures of being the mother of the bride, all while being polite to her ex-husband Richard's new, much younger girlfriend, if she'd absolutely had to, but the thought of staying behind, now, at the end of a very long day, to supervise cleanup, would have put her over the edge. She scanned the room, trying to decide if she could really make her escape without drawing attention or criticism from her new in-laws. Samhita's mother, Bandhavi was engrossed in a conversation with the caterers about how best to remove the stains from her antique table cloth. Bandhavi's husband Vijay was on the patio with a group of smokers. Richard and Colleen – incredibly, this one really was named Colleen – were eating a slice of cake off of the same plate.
Fucking Irish slut, Melfi thought, shocking herself a little. Fuck it. Others would do what needed to be done. She was going back to the hotel bar to get drunk.
Twenty minutes later, she chose an out-of-the-way booth, from which she could watch the door, sat, and drank deeply from a glass of red wine. She was finishing her second glass (not counting what she had drunk at the reception) when some instinct found her sitting straighter and sliding further into the booth and out of view. A split second later, she saw a familiar, hulking shape lumber through the door. Tony Soprano. In the flesh. It had been four years since the last time she had seen him – the day she had taken Elliot's advice and broken off their therapy for good, uncomfortable with the idea that she was enabling a sociopath, and as fed up with Anthony's rationalizations, half-truths and meaningless apologies as she was with his racism, sexism, and criminal activity. She had missed him, though, if only because of all her patients, he was the one who had made her laugh. And it bothered her to think that he must still believe she had stopped seeing him because of some silly beef about a torn up magazine.
She watched him curiously. He was wearing an irrepressible grin, and walking with a spring in his step. She found herself smiling, too. He looked thinner than the last time she had seen him. She finished her wine. A white-haired gentleman at the bar had stood up when Tony entered the room, and now Tony had joined him and the two were embracing. They spoke for several minutes. Over the music and talk that filled the room, Melfi couldn't hear anything that was said. At length, the two men shook hands, and the older man gathered his coat and left. Tony remained seated at the bar, puffing on a cigar and smiling to himself.
Almost before she knew what she was doing, Melfi sidled up to the bar and stood scant yards away from Tony – a little behind him and to his left. She caught the eye of the bartender – a smug-looking, thirty-something man with plucked eyebrows – and said loudly, holding out her glass, "The same again, please."
Tony Soprano's head jerked around as if pulled by a string. Melfi smiled at him.
"Hello, Anthony," she said, taking a seat at the bar stool next to his. "Nice to see you again."