2 A.M. at The Cat's Pajamas

1:40 A.M

The girl, introduced as Cassidy, can’t be more than eighteen, Sarina thinks. In the crook of Marcos’s elbow, she looks like a niece corralled into an affectionate hug during a family football game.

“I work here!” the girl yells. “We’re going to dance!”

It is too loud to talk. Ben avoids Sarina’s eyes as Cassidy says something into his ear. Sarina assumes it is a general bar request, a napkin or more ice; however, Ben slides off his stool. Holding her hand, he leads her into the crowd of people on the dance floor.

“She likes to make me jealous!” Marcos says, taking Ben’s place on the stool.

“How thoughtful of her!” Sarina recrosses her legs. Ben doesn’t dance, she thinks. At their prom, at every wedding they’ve suffered through at different tables, she doesn’t remember him dancing. Sarina had to live through fifteen years of friendship to dance with him in a fountain, but this girl did it with a quick message delivered to the vicinity of his collar. No matter. It will be a clumsy display. The song is Latin, demanding passion and hips. The girl will get frustrated. People will become uncomfortable. The sprinklers will turn on.

The musicians sweat. The song changes without stopping to one that’s more urgent. Ben and Cassidy reach the middle of the floor. Sarina takes absentminded sips of her whiskey and waits to see what they will do.

Cassidy begins a textbook salsa she returns to after spinning or completing a controlled slide. Sarina can see her bra winking from under a low-backed tank top. Par-rum-rum. Slide. Flashing gold charm near her collarbone. Par-rum-rum. Slide. Strands of hair plastered against her neck. Her gummy smile.

“She’s hot, right?” Marcos says.

“Ben can’t dance!” It is the only thing Sarina can think of to say that isn’t a lie. Though it appears to be a lie tonight. When the girl spins, he catches her and moves his feet in time with hers. He does his own spin. He hits appropriate postures. He laughs because he is having fun.

“Sometimes it’s about having the right partner!” Marcos moves his feet in time. “You look like you swallowed a rat!”

“I’m having a ball!” Sarina yells. “Your chest hair is distracting!”

He emancipates another button on his shirt. “Be a bitch!” he says.

The guitarist introduces a slow, gritty segue. The percussion simmers. Ben and the girl transition into an almost dirge: both of their arms are slack, his head buried in her neck.

Sarina removes her glasses and places them on the bar. She calls for another whiskey. An invisible god with strong hands squeezes her head. It is the senior prom again, only now she’s wearing natural fibers.

Ben: Be cool. Coca cola. Be cool. What am I doing? Be cool. Coca cola. Plug her in! Step, step. Tell her no! What am I doing (missed one, catch it up, parry step ([for the love of]!) Tell her no! Everything is — plug her in! Everything is. Step, step. What am I doing, think about it, date her cousin, mix it up and don’t get boring (this girl smells like Comet cleanser) — pelvis jut! Coca cola. Pelvis jut! Everything is. Comet cleanser. Tell her no. Everything is. Plug her in. For the love of. Sarina, Sarina, Sarina, Sarina.