“Are you sure?” She had white wine the last time we went out—four glasses of it, to be exact—and got shit-faced drunk. “I’m sure they have wine if you want it.” Her mouth moves, forming the words, “Shit, that’s right. I drink wine, don’t I?” The venue is loud and echoes, but her words are clear, perfectly formed on her lips. Lucy pauses indecisively. “I guess I’ll have wine if they have it.” She looks less than thrilled, pouty even.
