The Golden Hay Hotel buzzed louder now. Music thrummed beneath the marble floors, and clusters of old classmates huddled together, laughing too hard, drinking too much.
The lights dimmed slightly to a rich amber hue, reflecting off the chandeliers like captured stars.
Darren and Charles were both sitting by one of the bar tables, in their quiet but exciting conversations and sipping their glasses of dark whiskey.
At intervals, when they had nothing to say, Darren's gaze would dart over to the crowd, turning over the faces he had seen tonight — old friends, old rivals — all pretending to have moved on.
He would catch some glance at his direction then look away. Seeing glimpses of their faces, Darren would be struck by memories of college, the laughter, the mocking, and how he used to pretend that it didn't get to him.
He didn't win the nickname 'Death Wish Darren' for no reason. Darren just had no atom of an idea when to shut up.
