Chapter Eight
It occurred to me, as Mircalla and I entered the bar together, that I had never really been to one when it was busy. I had been to bars before, of course—where better to get cheap French fries and deep fried pickles? But this was different. This was busier than I expected. This was Disney-world at Christmas, packed tighter than peas in a pod, busy. My first instinct was to run, but Mircalla, totally unaware of my instincts as she was, grabbed me by the hand and pulled me into that sweaty, beer-drenched throng. Everything was a blur of bodies at that point, but somehow, Mircalla found us a small table in the corner, seated for two.
Mircalla ordered a beer from the handsome, tattooed waiter who couldn’t take his eyes off her. I ordered root beer and deep fried pickles.
“So?”
