Dullards

“This place is a fucking joke on weeknights,” she said, looking at me as some sort of compatriot in this God-awful Guido confinement mess we’d found ourselves in. She was there by choice, which made her less credible. I was there by dint of some misplaced sense of obligation, which made me stupid.

“I thought it was supposed to be good on weeknights and dead on Fridays and Saturdays.” I looked around and rubbed my forehead with the back of my wrist. I was sweating heavily. It sucked. “This is downright fuckin’ sad.”

“There’s so many girls in here, and all the guys are so shady. I hate this shit.”

“You hate it? Try doin’ this shit without a drink.”

“Oh, honey,” she said, “you want something?”

“Nah, I’m good.”

“You sure? I could get you a glass of water or something.”

“No thanks,” I replied. “I get everything free here.”

“I don’t even know what we’re doing out tonight. I told my friend I didn’t want to come out, but she wanted to meet the guy she’s dancing with, and I’m stuck getting felt up by a room full of Guidos.”

“I don’t know if the problem is really the Guidos on a night like tonight. The ones that make me laugh are all these desperate divorced fucks walking around. That’s who comes out on Monday nights.”

“Forget the divorced ones,” she said. “It’s the desperate married fucks that make me sick.”

“Married ones?”

“Yeah. They take their fuckin’ rings off and hit on anything with a pair of tits.”

“How do you know they’re married?” I asked.

“It’s summer, honey. They all got fuckin’ tan lines.”

“On their ring fingers?”

“Look for it,” she said. “It’ll give you something to do.”