He went into the men’s room. I rehearsed how I was going to gently yet firmly take the car keys away from him, and drive myself home (and then call him a ride so he’d get home safely), damning the laws prohibiting me from driving in England. A draft blew bits of paper, crumpled sticky notes, and a few other forms of debris around the floor, and although I could still hear the sound of the music from the club downstairs, the upper floor was quiet. Eerily quiet. The kind of quiet where you start imagining that a building is a living entity, and you are an invader in its guts.
Aidan came out of the bathroom. He didn’t look annoyed, which was good, but he wasn’t walking quite right, which was bad. I didn’t want to get killed if he drove us home, so I trotted out my best excuse. “I was thinkin
