I wander through the pools of light and dark, across the patio, past the tree. I’m looking for something I can’t name. I see an outbuilding squat against the sky, a lighted doorway. I go through it, and find myself in a mineral-smelling room with plank walls and lined with urinals. It’s full of guys laughing. They’re passing something small from hand to hand and telling a story about a friend who has a horse. Or who is a horse. Or who does horse. But then they go and I am alone with the peaceful dripping and the bare bulb swinging in the air. I go into the stall and bolt the door so I can sit down in peace with no eyes on me. It’s the butter-haired woman’s fault, coming here has reminded me of her and that is why I’m upset—normally I am cautious, I only drink this much at home. I have to get out of here, I have to get to my house. But just at this second I can’t figure out how to do that. The walls pulse.

Two people enter the bathroom. Their movements and words have furry edges, they’re very drunk—this is obvious even to me.

“They belonged to my uncle,” a voice says. “And were my grandfather’s before that. And his father’s. And his father wore them in the War of Northern Aggression. So just give them back, man. The sleeve-links, I mean cufflinks. I can’t replace them. And they were red and silver, my favorite colors.”

“I didn’t take anything from you,” a voice says. It’s familiar. The tone sets my sluggish synapses firing. There is an idea in my brain but I can’t seem to have it. “And you know I didn’t. You’re just trying to make me give you money. I see straight through you.”

“You were sitting beside me at the bar,” the cufflinks guy says, “I took them off for just a second. And then they were gone. That’s a fact.”

“You’re unstable,” the familiar voice says, sympathetic. “I understand that you don’t want to believe you lost those cufflinks. You want someone to blame. I understand. But deep down, you know I’m not responsible.”

The other man starts crying. “Please,” he says. “You know it’s not right.”

“Please stop visiting your delusions on me. Go find someone else.”

There’s a thud and a crack. Someone just hit the tile. I am curious by now, and that feeling is cutting through the drunk. Plus, I am nearly certain that I know who the second voice belongs to.