“Do you do this every night?” “Do what?” I nodded toward my glass of Boxler that refilled itself every time my eyes were averted. To the half-empty wine bottles that lined the bar for consumption. To Nicky eating cocktail olives while he and Scott told each other to fuck their mothers. To Lou’s gravelly serenade coasting down on us through a film of smoke. To the row of us, unkempt, glassy and damp, sweating drinks in our hands. “This?” Ariel waved away the smoke in front of my face, waved it away like it was nothing. “We’re just having our shift drink.”
