The girl in the backseat introduced herself as Samantha. She had long brown hair and a birthmark shaped like a top hat on her shoulder. The one in the front was blond and was smoking a clove cigarette. Ben wanted to tell her how bad they were for her lungs, but when she turned to look at him, he saw she was not the type of girl who would care what he had to say. Overall, she was not unpretty. She had large, rectangular teeth that made Ben think of carrots, but her nose was the right size, and there was something comforting about her lips.

“My name’s Ben,” he said to her, and held out his hand.

She took his hand in the way dainty women and old ladies shake hands: by the fingers only, as if receiving a wad of money. “You can call me Claire or Anita. Betty Crocker. Doesn’t matter.” She let go of his hand and adjusted the hem of her white dress. The sight of her legs coming together beneath her hand ignited a set of reactions in Ben’s mind. He had not, before this, understood that her purpose was to have sex with him. Even the act of shaking her hand now seemed like the opening scene of a porno. He tried not to think of his girlfriend, Alana—he’d been meaning to break up with her anyway. There was nothing exactly wrong with Alana—in fact, he’d grown quite attached to her—but she was not the type of girl he would want to settle down with. She did not own a pair of high heels and had never, to his memory, worn lipstick. There would be parties in law school, parties that demanded certain attire and an appreciation of opulence. She was the type to take a book into a spare room and sulk among the coats until the party was over. Even Freddy was too much for her—she said he reminded her of Donald Trump and that he’d once made a pass at her, although Freddy had vehemently denied doing anything of the sort. He didn’t like Alana either. He called her a prude and a Catholic.

“Maybe we should all grab a drink,” Ben said, hoping to stall whatever was about to come.

“Unnecessary,” Freddy said. “I’ve got us rooms.”

The hotel was busy, even for a Saturday night. It was a nice hotel, the kind with chandeliers and bellboys. The girls kept adjusting their dresses and wiping the makeup from under their eyes. Ben put his hands in his pockets and tried to feign a look of disinterest as they joined the check-in line.

“I can’t stand hotels when I’m drunk,” the girl said. She was standing close to him, so that her arm brushed against his. “The lighting makes everyone look like a clown. Reminds me of Vegas, in a bad way.”

“Oh, me too,” Ben said, although he had never been to Vegas.

“It’s a nice coat,” the girl said, and began to finger one of the buttons. “My dad once had a coat like this. Got it in Egypt or somewhere like that.”