“I can only guess what kind of stuff they serve here,” I said, looking at what Vicki had brought us.

“You good girl,” I smiled looking at the can of Diet Coke in her hand, “But come on, where’s my Pabst?”

She laughed, “Mara, I’m going to keep an eye on you.” She handed me a Diet Coke.

“You know,” I said, “You never gave me an answer about coming to that gallery opening this weekend.”

“Oh,” she blushed, “I forgot.”

“Oh, come on, it will be super fun,” I tempted, “This guy painted all these crazy Tretchikoff rip offs of Jayne Mansfield. It’s unreal. Plus, there’s an after party. With Pabst.”

“Hey,” a voice said. We looked up. I rolled my eyes and groaned.

“Eric,” Vicki said excitedly, nearly jumping from her seat. She looked at me pleadingly.

“Go,” I ushered, “I’ll be fine, I brought Dead Souls.” I reached for the book in my bag and waved it.

“You sure?” She said looking concerned.

“Really, Nikolai Vasilevich Gogol is practically sanctuary compared to this,” I said.