PATRICK SCOWLS at his cell phone. "Aw, hell. The wife is calling me." My lips quirk in a tipsy smile, and I take another sip of my beer.
My cell phone is at my right hand. It's silent.
There's no wife calling me anymore.
Loud music pulses with the intention of bursting our eardrums. Neon lights flash in hypnotic streams. Our plush velvet booth is set on a raised dais that overlooks the dance floor.
Tonight is a themed celebration. Futuristic indulgence.
Whoever decorated the place needs to be fired. Who told them that foil- covered napkin holders and chrome barstools was a good look?
A cheer breaks out from the dance floor.
I glance in that direction. Sigh when I see kids grinding on each other in a way that only youth and wild abandonment would call a good time. Heads tilted back. Mouths wide open at the ceiling.
The scene stinks of recklessness, bad decisions and mornings of regret. My eyes trail back to the lousy decorations.
