After Hours

You sit at the bar, poised over a vodka martini. You don't know what goes in a vodka martini other than vodka, but you ordered it as if you did. The place is decorated in warm neon lights, and jazz riffs carry down the room past women in silk dresses. Your parents always warned you about jazz clubs. You survey the crowd, knowing that all these faces tell a story, but all of the faces that you can see look like their stories would be pretty boring. Just in case, you keep a hand on your iPhone, tucked away in the pocket of your journalist trenchcoat. You are beginning to think that the coat store man lied, and that there is no such thing as a journalist trenchcoat.

A tall man leans over your shoulder, flashing you a row of perfect white teeth. He wants to know your name. After ordering you a second drink, he inches closer and says he has a hotel room across the street. He asks if you want to come and see a press demo. You play it cool; smile and say sure.

There is a computer already set up at the desk, alongside a bowl of chocolate chip cookies. The man sits you down in front of the monitor and asks you what you think of the graphics. You say they're impressive. You shoot some guys on the screen for a little bit and compliment the engine and AI mechanics. The man notes something on a clipboard. He says this is all good feedback. When you reach the end of the level, you ask to see more. He apologises, saying he has another appointment. As he ushers you out the door, he gives you a t-shirt and a sticker and says he looks forward to your written impressions.

You wake up in the backseat of a convertible parked in your ex's garage. You decide to stop drinking.