He draws the line at fast dancing. Not tonight, not with her. He feels his virility is hard enough won with this woman; he's not about to disco in public. But he encourages her to it, to the show. He sits at a small round table for two right at the edge of the dance floor and she obliges him and he buys her a G&T - oiled not wrecked. After all, she does have a baby at home whom he needs to deliver her back to before this ride turns into squash. He grimaces at the thought. Not at the thought of pumpkin, or the baby or even the teenage son, but at the thought, plural, he's entertaining about a MILF. A real live in the flesh MILF. This is a first and something he has judiciously avoided for all of his adult life.

She doesn't wear a wedding band, he notices this when he comes back from the bar with two drinks and hands her one. He's not going to think about Walt. Not in any imaginable way. Walt's wife? Technically speaking. He's actually had Walt's hands on him and he's pretty sure that with the right motivation, and this woman could be that motivation, he could take him in another round. Pretty sure.

But more than worrying about Mrs. White's mister, he's stumped by the entire evening. He might have been reading it wrong but he thought they were adversaries. He had told her pretty clearly, we don't need you. And she rose to that challenge and made herself indispensable as the washerwoman pounding Walt's dirty money clean, and he and she had grown their hate/hate relationship from there. Or at least that's what he'd thought. He's been wrong before, if he squints and thinks about it he might remember when that was but he's certainly wrong about this, about her.

One thing that is crystal is that his feelings for this woman were always bordering on slightly obsessive. She has been and continues to be utterly mysterious.

He's gluttonously watched her dance three songs now and he can hear the clock strike past twelve and it's time to call it a night. She sways back to the table and forlornly finishes her drink which she had actually gulped down two songs earlier.

"Alright, got that out of your system? You ready to call it a night?" He stands and of course Lady Luck laughs and "Can't You See" by The Marshall Tucker Band simmers out of the juke.

She takes his hand and he steps the three steps clear of the table and chairs and pulls her into his arms. "Last one, doll. Like really really. Those glass slippers have got to be killing you by now."

She snakes a hand between their bodies and unbuttons his suit coat and feeds her arm around him, urging his hips as close to hers as he dare go. But he goes.

"You're in such good shape," she whispers up into his face and his brows come together as he considers this. Is he? "How tall are you? Tall?"

"My feet touch the floor," he laughs but he knows he isn't much taller than Walt. Why is he giving her the impression of size? She lays the side of her face on his shoulder and closes her eyes and her face relaxes and he suddenly realizes that it's not really sex, or betrayal, or even a cheap thrill she's after, it's safety.

"WHAT?" Mike's voice is low but incredibly distinct. The words sharp as a stiletto to the eye.

"I know," Saul begins but is interrupted by the cocktail waitress on her second run to their table. He hasn't really done more than reposition the chicken-fried steak on his plate but he's ready for a second G&T. He indicates with a wave of his hand that she should bring Mike another beer.

Mike tilts his head forward and it silences Saul. "I'm not sure you do know. My head is spinning with a crap ton of shit right now and most of that also happens to be sitting on my plate. I cannot," he holds up his fork, "have more shit rained down on me right at this moment. Why are you telling me this?"

Saul one shoulder shrugs and puts his fork down. "I know you're in the middle of it. At least I think I know. But before you leave for Mexico I thought I should come clean, so to speak. There's a vibe in the air. If something happens while you're gone…." He trails off and Mike waits. "At least you'll have all the before details, you know, after."

"After what, Saul? You're slipping it to Walter White's wife, I have no idea on God's green earth why you're doing that, and you're picking up on a vibe and you want me to know because why exactly?"

The two drinks are set down on the table and the waitress waits with a rude hand on her slung sideways hip. Saul raises his eyebrows and wags his head in an exaggerated no at her. She pouts in an ugly way but departs.

Saul sighs.

"Wait," Mike puts his own fork down. "Is this a confession? Bragging? Is this exactly like the saying about a woman taking a secret to her grave but a man needing to tell someone? Do not lay this on me, Goodman. Really."

Saul pulls a face. "You are seriously bumming my trip here, Mike."

"Why are you doing this? No, not confessing, bragging, what have you, but why are you doing what you're doing?"

"It just sorta kinda, you know…" He trails off again.

Mike is shaking his head no, I do not know. "The only thing I know is that I regret the day we ever met Walter White. I mean that."

Silence.

"And his wife. Pinkman…now he's a different story."

Saul downs the drink and sucks an ice cube into his mouth and pushes it between his cheek and teeth with his tongue. He's looking into a far corner of the Town Lounge.

"You need to stop this, Saul. And I'm as serious as a heart attack. This guy….he's not, I don't know exactly what he is and isn't, but one thing I do know is he's not stable. This is not what you should be doing with this – emphasis on "this" - guy's wife."

"Technically," Saul holds up the glass and spits the cube back into it, "she's his wife, but they aren't co-habiting."

Mike shakes his head and diligently finishes his own chicken-fried steak, using the edge of his fork to wipe up the mashed potatoes and gravy. He wipes his mouth with the cloth napkin, folds it once, twice, three times and pushes it under the edge of the plate. He sits back and drinks his beer, watching Saul over the bottle.

"What? You're making me as nervous as a whore in church."

"That's apt."

More silence while Mike studies him.

"It feels real."

Mike's face shows he is stunned momentarily beyond words. "Sleeping with another man's wife is never real, Saul."

"Technically," he holds up a finger but Mike cuts him off.

"Have you asked yourself why? Why you of all the Indian Chiefs on this reservation? That woman she strikes me as, how do I say this, canny? In charge? Why is she doing this? Why is she doing this with you?"

Saul scowls. "I could think of several reasons if I wanted to."

"No, you can't. Look at that other guy," he waves the bottle of beer then finishes it, "that was some sort of power play, clever I'll give her that, to get Walt out of the house. Now who knows? Maybe she doesn't want Walt back in the house." He looks down at his hands. "But she doesn't necessarily not want his money back in the house. But why sleep with another man…maybe she sees you intrinsically tied to the cash. Maybe she sees you as the safe bet. Maybe she's using you. To get to him."

"That isn't fair."

"Fair? This isn't a boy meets girl story, Saul. This is amateur Svengali stuff. You ever see that movie "All About Eve"?"

Saul nods reluctantly.

"I'm not saying nuthin' about your virility but I'm betting she seduced you." Here Mike looks slightly confused. "Her reasons are her secret and probably have nothing to do with you. Or not much."

"Christ I'm going to need a fistful of Viagra after this."

Mike shrugs and holds both hands up. "Sorry. But this doesn't make sense. I can see you are clearly not in a position right now to be thinking about this little rendezvous with a critical eye. But you're going to be and probably sooner than you think. We should break it down piece by piece right now and figure it out."

"Enough. You've got it wrong; you're looking at it wrong because you don't like White. I get that, but this isn't about him. Not any more."

"Saul, one thing I've learned with this guy is that everything is about him, everything. Okay, you don't want to examine her motives. Hell, maybe she's just lonely."

Saul snorts.

"And I know you don't want to hear this, but my advice is cease and desist."

"Man." Saul shakes his head glumly.

"Everyone Walter White touches has something real bad happen to him. Everyone."

Before Saul can take that thought and concretize it in regards to Skyler, and Skyler and Walt, and Skyler and him, Mike stands and reaches for his wallet. Saul waves him off. "Definitely not my pleasure, but I've got this.

"And you're not going to tip that gal, are you?"

"Sure, I will, here's a tip - if you don't know how to dance just spell your name in cursive with your ass."

Mike laughs but cuts off the sound quickly. He puts a hand on Saul's shoulder. "I don't know how long we're gonna be gone. Probably not much more than half a week. We can talk more this time next week, but Goodman, I know you know that I'm right about this."

Saul watches Mike hunt the waitress down and press a bill into her hand and then he's gone out into the New Mexico evening. He wonders why he couldn't just tell the man that Skyler White is scared, that maybe just maybe she feels safe with him. He fishes his phone out and sets it on the table top, motions for another G&T. He sits at the table watching the sun set and trying to will the telephone to ring.