“I bet it’s not even open. Ours are the only cars in the parking lot. It’s only four in the afternoon. What will they say when two women in prissy sundresses and sandals come walking in for a beer?”

“I don’t care. Do you?”

“No,” Sadie said, “I don’t care, and thanks for reminding me that I don’t care.”

We picked our way through the parking lot, stepping around cigarette butts, empty Jim Beam bottles, crushed beer cans—college, exactly. I pushed open the red-painted wooden door and stood still, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dim light, my nose to the rank odor that had once been the aroma of a good night out. If I closed my eyes and didn’t look at my body, or my face, or my outfit, I could feel eighteen, invincible, my entire life ahead of me with wide-open possibilities that I didn’t even bother to think about because at that moment I was along for the wild ride that was preadulthood. It had been a time when only the absolute present mattered: what band was playing, who stood next to me in the crowd, a test grade, a touch, a kiss—all so important.

“May I help you ladies?” a deep male voice called from inside.

Sadie pushed me from the lower back, nudging me into the bar area. I emerged, blinking. “Yes, we’d like two Bud Lights, draft, cold.”

He laughed. “A little early, but I think I can accommodate.”

He must have been twenty-one to be serving drinks, but he looked much younger—which was the obvious and awful thing that happens when you get old: You think legal adults look like toddlers.

I sat on the sticky bar stool, and Sadie sat next to me. Neither of us spoke as the dark-haired bartender poured the beer. As if in agreement, we spun around and surveyed the room. Posters advertising beer, vodka, bands, parties, and even cigarettes were taped crooked to the chocolate-colored panel walls. The stage was in complete darkness, and the tables were scattered in a random pattern.

Sadie spoke first. “This is a time warp. Nothing has changed. So weird. But then again, I’ve never been in here when it’s empty.”

The bartender placed our beers in front of us. “You been here before?” he asked.

“A long, long time ago,” I said.

He squinted at me. “Then you must have been an infant.”

“No,” I said, blushing and thankful he couldn’t see me clearly. “We were here in the eighties.”

“Oh,” he said, and I imagined him going back, back, back in time to before he was born and he couldn’t grasp the concept.

Sadie took a long sip of beer. “Those were the days of scrunchies and leg warmers, of kegs and Mick Jagger and—”

“Stop,” I said. “You’re freaking him out.”

He laughed. “No.”