The music is in full swing and I’m just running from one table to another. I’m sweaty and I hate that feeling. I take a look at Chris: he’s sitting at an empty table and we stare at each other as he calmly drinks his beer. He’s wearing baggy jeans, a black tank top, and a sweatshirt whose hood is raised making him look like a burglar ready to spring into action. He smiles at me before bringing the neck of his bottle to his mouth. Young people of about my age, three guys and two girls, settle in a place next to his. Chris ignores them, but not the girls in dresses cut as low in the front as the back. They don’t stop turning to look at him. Their theatrics annoy me. Suddenly, with a lopsided smile, he sends me a small hand sign to join him. I lift my chin and squint. He raises an eyebrow and
