Tom didn’t respond. From his small CD collection he chose Bitch’s Brew, dimly aware that its humid powers, its steeping black magic, might be appropriate for the night’s mysterious chemistries. He was already delighted by the license the guests were taking and hoped to see them push even further. Let’s see where it goes, he thought. Feed the flames. He loaded the CD into the magazine and the first sultry notes slid from the speakers, coiling in the air like smoke.

He stood to find Lana and Diego already dancing, Lana clinging to Diego’s beefy frame, and Diego holding his hands loosely around Lana’s waist, slightly embarrassed by the spectacle they were making. There was something undeniably sordid in the scene. The two blundered around the room, knocking into the edges of the coffee table and the sides of the couch, as the three other guests watched.

Conrad leered and raised his glass.

Tom raised his glass in return. The trumpet was like a slithering, multihued snake. Lana tucked herself against Diego’s broad chest. Tom approved. What better way to heal yourself than the cauterizing fire of bad decisions? What better way to reclaim whatever eludes you in day-to-day life?

The pair stumbled along until Diego seemed to think it had gone on long enough and released Lana, gently but firmly. Lana looked confused, as if she had just awakened from a dream, and Conrad clapped four bleak claps, breaking what remained of the spell. Diego grinned sheepishly and took the opportunity to evacuate the room. On the way he lumbered into the wall with his shoulder and knocked a framed picture of Mount Hood askew.

Lana, finding her drink, glared hatefully at Conrad, blaming him for some unformed slight, and exited as well.

“You and me next?” Conrad said to Javier, and answered himself: “Maybe later.”

Tom found Lana in the kitchen, among the strewn cooking utensils and detritus of the night’s meal. She was pouring herself a new tall glass of wine, and when she was done, she corked the bottle. Tom took it from her and struggled to pull the cork out for himself.

“You know what you’re doing, I guess,” Tom said, without judgment. He figured it was his obligation to check up on her. If nothing else, his concern added to the sense of juvenile drama.

“You have a problem with what I’m doing?” she said. She smiled a drunk, lizardy smile as some everyday part of herself immolated in the far recesses of her brain.

“It’s not my problem,” he said, shrugging. “You’re a big girl.”

“I am a big girl,” she said, and took a large sip of wine. Her mouth and chin distorted behind the bubble of glass. She wiped her lips with the back of her hand. “And you know what? Big girl wants to fuck.”