Normally, people at the Teardrop Lounge don’t dress up, but no one can ignore him—tan sports jacket, pink tie. On the dance floor, he whoops, spins, flails—an erratic dervish edging up on dangerous.
He catches the bouncer’s eye.
“My divorce is final today,” he explains. “I’m celebrating.”
“I met her here,” he tells a woman at the bar. “The first time I saw her, she was sitting in that booth wearing a white polka-dot dress, hands folded neatly in her lap. Back then she seemed as pure as an angel’s prayer.”
He pauses, then continues. “Back then.”