47.

I'm trying awfully hard not to just sit here and lurk on this girl. I mill around the living room scouting for more abandoned booze, but my eyes never leave her. Her eye liner runs out to the edges of her face, in these swooping lines. They look like little bird wings. She squirms and shifts constantly, clearly uncomfortable. She's holding her drink like a crutch. "Foxy lady" comes on and her head kind of picks up. Wings flutter about. I pound another drink, vodka cranberry this time, and my head perks up too. That bitching guitar riff kicks off and I see her start to sway, but we're barely thirty seconds in and some bastard changes it to some modern auto tuned to all shit rap song. The weight falls back on her crutch. I like her already and I wanna go over there and make small chat about how lame it is that someone changed the music, but I can't. Too damn awkward, too damn nervous. I'm trying to make up some bullshit reason as to why she would even want to talk to me when I spot Mr. Mole. Party police bro. His eyes dart around and he's moving with the kind of haste that means he's looking for something important. He's looking for me.