"The problem with dying," she tells me loudly in my ear, trying to compete with the thunderous music around us, "is there's no afterparty." I wonder how many times she's used this line, and how long she spent crafting it, or if it's just something someone else once used on her. I wonder if it worked. When she removes her lips from my ear to see my reaction, I can only offer a wan smile and another pull from a longneck bottle. If the unfocused distance in her eyes is any reflection of reality, she's too far gone to notice my lack of interest anyway, so I take in the view of this stygian grotto that passes for a club before turning my gaze back to her, to see I was wrong; she's noticed, and the pull at the corners of her eyes announce it louder than the bass of these speakers. Romance isn't found in a dancefloor gilded with leather and lace, I want to tell her, but don't, and we lose each other at one hundred twenty beats per minute.