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They never knew each other personally. They were only enemies of friends, with no personal grudge. They were not the type to maintain a grudge, exactly. They hated, easily enough, but it was a mature, strong hatred untainted by anger or bias. They are comfortable in their enmities.
He emerges from his dressing room mostly ready. Pinstriped pants are carefully pressed, black shirt tucked in, vest loose and still undone; collar flipped up and buttons up to his throat. His jacket is laid over his arm, and he holds it close to his side.
She holds a tie to his shirt, then a second. They scrutinize it in silence.
"The second, I think."
He agrees, and threads it around his collar, tying it meticulously, yet without visible effort. He cinches the knot to his throat, fixes his collar and vest, and turns to be critiqued. She simply smiles; no-one she's ever met is as precise, as calculating, or as well-dressed. She has never needed to fix him in any way.
She appreciates it on a level she doesn't get to indulge often. After a few talks with him, they have reached a comfortable presence, and she readily acknowledges that he, unlike practically everyone she's ever met, is her equal. No more than that, but certainly no less.
He slips his jacket on, hands her her fur. He holds the door open, but only because he has to lock it. She gets her own door when they get into his car, and lights her own cigarette. At home, she takes faint joy in forcing Crowbar to strike a match and hold it for her. But he's weak, and the strength he thinks he has just makes him weaker. She does it because she's above him, to remind him of it. She could never do the same to Diamonds Droog. He is too much like her.
He doesn't take her arm when they walk into the opera, but the crowds part around them all the same. They sit in their booth in plush red velvet seats and take turns pouring cabernet, and Snowman reflects that he is perhaps her first and only friend. She simply never expected to have one. But he is completely and utterly disinterested in her as a woman, and perfectly equal with her as an appreciator of beauty, the arts, and, perhaps, as one of Slick's lovers. It makes for an odd friendship, cool and distant, but there is a vein through it, an underground river flowing dark and unseen between them. They are alike, more than she ever thought she could find.
As the curtains rise, she turns her head and raises her glass. He does the same, and the stage lights glint in the same colour off his wine and the diamond pin at his lapel, and as they meet eyes, nothing at all happens. The glasses chime together as if to mark it, and they both turn away, satisfied that their relationship remains the perfected empty equality it has always been.