Vittorio blushes and says, “I have to, go back … to my family.”

“What about Marie?” she asks, tender, hand on his wrist.

I look over at Marie, who is talking to Trav about the book.

“Oh,” Vittorio says, looking over at her, then abruptly looking back at Lauren, “I will miss her very much … very much.”

I want to say the same thing to Lauren, but yawn instead and drink more of the Beck’s feeling drowsy, and a little high. It’s over, definitely. I’m about to tell her but Stump jumps up and puts on a Circle Jerks tape which no one can listen to, and Mona and Trav want to listen to Los Lobos, so everyone compromises and we listen to Yaz. Stump starts to dance in the now darkened room with Mona and Trav and the two editors try to dance to the music also. Stump even urges Marie to come join them but she just smiles and says that she is very tired.

Vittorio’s laughing about the music and making everyone fresh drinks. Marie lights candles. Vittorio leans over and whispers something in Lauren’s ear. Lauren keeps looking over at me. I’m now drinking whiskey from Stump’s flask and on the verge of falling asleep. I can’t hear what the two of them are talking about and I’m grateful. I keep washing the taste of the cheap whiskey from my mouth with the rest of a warm Beck’s. Later everyone makes a toast, wishing Vittorio good luck on his trip, even Marie, who looks sad as she raises her glass and mouths, “Mi amore,” to Vittorio, married, father, Vittorio. This is the last thing I remember clearly.

I pass out.

I wake up and find myself sweating on Vittorio’s bed, I get up and look at my watch and see that it’s close to midnight. I stand up carefully, then stagger down the stairs and into the living room. Everyone’s gone except for Lauren and Vittorio who have now moved to the couch talking, candles on the table in front of them still burning. How many beers had I drunk? How much whiskey? Soft Italian Muzak comes from the stereo now. Had I actually tried to dance? Had I actually finished the whiskey from Stump’s flask? I can’t remember.

“Just get up?” she asks.

“What’s going on?” I say, steadying myself as I sit down.

“Drinking,” she says, holding up a glass of—what in the hell is it? Port? “Want one?”

I can tell that she’s drunk because of the rigid way she’s sitting on the couch, trying to maintain what’s left of her composure. She sloppily lights a cigarette, and Vittorio pours himself what little red wine is left in the bottle. How long have they been sitting on the couch like that? I look at my watch.

“No,” I say. I pour myself a glass of tonic water with shaking hands and sip it. “How did I get in Vittorio’s room?”

“You were really drunk,” she says. “Feeling better?”

“No. I don’t.” I rub my forehead. “I was really drunk?”

“Yeah. We decided to let you rest awhile before we left.”

We? What does “We” mean? Who’s “We”? I look around the room and then back at her and notice that her shoes are off. “What are your shoes doing off?”

“What?” she asks. Who me? Little Miss Innocent.

“Your shoes. Why—are—they—off,” I ask, spacing each word out.

“I was dancing,” she says.

“Great.” An image of her slow dancing with Vittorio, his stubby fingers caressing her back, her ass, Lauren sighing, “Oh please,” in that soft way Lauren always sighs. “Oh please Vittorio.” This all flashes through my mind and my headache worsens. I look at her. I don’t know her. She’s nothing.

“You … you have wonderful … wonderful feet,” Vittorio murmurs drunkenly, leaning over her.

“Vittorio,” she says, warning.

“No … no, let me look.” He lifts one of her legs up.

“Vittorio,” she says, what seems to me coyly.

Vittorio leans down and kisses her foot.

I stand up. “Okay. We’re going.”

“You want to?” She looks up while Vittorio begins to fondle her ankle, his hand moving up her goddamn knee.

“Yes. Now,” I demand.

“Vittorio, we’ve got to go,” she says, trying to stand up.

“Oh no, no, no … no, no, no … don’t, don’t go,” Vittorio says, alarmed.

“We have to, Vittorio,” she says, finishing her drink.

“No! No!” Vittorio cries out, trying to reach for her hand.

“Jesus, Lauren, come on!” I tell her.