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a hundred-dollar haircut and trendy designer tie, plain, without skulls and crossbones. He shook my hand and, to give him credit, did not overtly check out my breasts. He even bought my first margarita.
    Marcy grinned. “Planning on getting wild, Elle?”
    “Ah, one drink’s not a big deal. Not everyone’s a lush like you, babe.” What might have been condescending sounded fond from Wayne, his arm outstretched along the bench behind her to toy with the long, curling strand of her hair. “Trust me, Elle, we’ll be carrying Marcy out of here.”
    Marcy made a face and nudged him, but didn’t look displeased. “Don’t listen to him.”
    “Hey, so long as it gets me laid,” Wayne said, “I don’t care how drunk you get—”
    She slapped him in earnest this time. “Hey!”
    She sent me an apologetic glance, but I shrugged, not as embarrassed as I think she expected. The fact was, I liked drinking too much to be a hard drinker. I liked the oblivion, the way a few drinks softened the edges of my mind and chased away even the ever-present need I felt to count, catalog and calculate.
    Alcohol is the noose with which my father keeps trying to hang himself. I understand why he does it. He is, after all, married to my mother. Now, retired and in his sixties, drinking is my father’s career and hobby all in one. Maybe it’s his shield. I don’t know. We don’t talk about it. We aren’t the only family with a white elephant in the living room, but who ever cares about anyone else’s family when their own is the one they have to live with?
    “So, you work with Marcy?” Wayne earned points for what appeared to be sincere interest.
    “Yes. She’s in public accounting and I’m in corporate, but we both work for the same company.”
    Wayne grinned. “Me, I’m in murders and executions.”
    “Wayne!” Marcy rolled her eyes. “He means—”
    “Mergers and acquisitions. I got it.”
    Wayne looked impressed. “You know American Psycho. ”
    “Sure.” I sipped my drink.
    “Wayne thinks he’s Patrick Bateman,” Marcy explained. “Aside from that pesky bad habit of slicing up prostitutes with a chainsaw.”
    “Well,” I said carefully, watching him, “nobody’s perfect.”
    His smile rewarded me, and then he laughed. “Hey, Marcy, I like your friend.”
    She looked at me. “Me, too.”
    Sometimes you share a moment with someone that has nothing to do with where you are, or what you’re doing. Marcy and I giggled, girly in a way I wasn’t used to but enjoyed nevertheless. Wayne looked at us, back and forth, until he shook his head with a shrug at our feminine absurdity.
    “To murders and executions,” he said with a lift of his beer. “And to all things materialistic and shallow.”
    We toasted his words. We drank. We talked, though much of what we said had to be shouted over the music. I relaxed, letting the alcohol and music loosen my tense shoulders.
    “It’s my turn,” I protested when Wayne made to order one more round of drinks.
    He held up his hands. “I’m not gonna argue. My mama told me a woman’s always right. You go right on ahead, Miss Kavanagh, and buy the next round. I’m comfortable enough in my masculinity to accept a woman’s generosity.”
    “Oh, ho ho,” said Marcy. “You mean you’re drunk enough you don’t feel like getting up to go to the bar.”
    Wayne grinned and pulled her close for a kiss that made me feel like a voyeur. “That, too.”
    That was my cue to leave them for a few moments. I needed to stand, anyway, to gauge my own level of inebriation. Two drinks took me a lot farther than they had three years ago.
    A space opened up at the bar as I approached, and the bartender gave me his immediate attention. I knew he was paid to flirt as much as he was to mix drinks, but his smile still flooded me with warmth. I’m no more immune to my sense of self being reflected in the light of another’s esteem than any other woman. I smiled back and ordered two more