“It’s in here,” I said out loud, moving slowly and straining to see things. I felt linoleum underfoot, saw triangular patterns painted onto the floor.
“And you can’t really do anything about it,” she said, elbowing me with a sweaty and hoppy IPA in her hand. She’d just commented on how sexy the guy with the saxophone was; his name was Taylor. He was hanging back in a dim corner of the room now, waiting for his next solo. “You just have to focus on something else.”