Parallel

even cuter than he was this afternoon, if that’s possible.
    “The guest of honor arrives,” Marissa says as we approach the table. The guys stand to greet us. “Abby and Caitlin, meet Ben and Michael.”
    “So you’re the birthday girl,” Michael says, pulling out the chair next to him. “This saves me the trouble of stalking you,” he whispers when I sit, then flags down the waiter to order a round of “s-bombs” for the table. “And bring a tall glass for this one,” he adds, pointing at me. “It’s her twenty-first birthday today.” There’s no way the waiter believes this, but he doesn’t question it.
    “What’s an s-bomb?” I ask when the waiter is gone.
    “Sake bomb,” Michael explains. “A shot glass of hot sake, dropped into half a glass of beer, and then chugged as fast as possible.” He laughs at the disgusted look on my face. “It doesn’t taste as bad as it sounds. Promise.”
    “He’s lying. It tastes exactly as bad as it sounds,” Ben says. “But after the first one, you won’t notice anymore.”
    Ben is right. By the second round, I couldn’t care less about the taste: My sole concern is mastering the art of the shot glass drop so as to minimize beer splash (I gave up on being the fastest drinker during the first round—even teensy Marissa can chug faster than I can, although the comparison isn’t really fair, since she’s dropping her sake into sparkling water. Something about beer causing “accelerated amino acid catabolism,” which, yes, she said with a straight face). Marissa, Michael, and I are in the midst of a pretty heated competition. Meanwhile, Ben and Caitlin aren’t really participating in the frenzy. They’re leaning back from the table, talking in a way that doesn’t really invite group participation. I glance over at Marissa to see if she’s annoyed by it, but she’s too focused on improving her chug time to notice that her boyfriend appears to be totally taken with another girl.
    “Whatcha guys talking about?” I ask them, adding a slight slur to my words so I sound drunker than I am and thus less like I’m calling them out.
    “Caitlin’s telling me all about astroparticle physics,” Ben replies, looking decidedly un-guilty. He smiles at her. “Well, maybe not all about it, but the parts my pea brain can understand.”
    “Ben’s a journalism major,” Caitlin announces. “He interned at the Huffington Post last summer.” I shoot her a look. I’m probably supposed to know that already. Thankfully, Marissa jumps in before I have to respond.
    “I told her that,” she says with a dismissive wave of her hand. “But what I didn’t tell her is that Michael is really good at lacrosse. And he’s in a fraternity. Right, Michael?”
    “Uh-oh,” Michael says as our waiter arrives with the food. “If those are my two best selling points, I’m in trouble.”
    After the waiter distributes the plates, conversation pretty much comes to a standstill as we collectively inhale an obscene amount of sushi. The food helps balance the alcohol, and by the time Ben signals for the check, I’m feeling really good. Full, slightly buzzed, and more than slightly enamored with Michael, who seems to be enjoying himself just as much as I am. Right now he’s leaning back, arm around the back of my chair, lightly rubbing my shoulder with his thumb. I close my eyes and lean into him, soaking this moment in, thankful that my brain malfunction (because, really, let’s call a spade a spade) will allow me to remember this tomorrow even if no one else does.
    “Abby?” Michael sounds concerned. I don’t blame him. His sake-bombed date is sitting at the table with her eyes closed. I open them and smile.
    “Hi.”
    “You okay?”
    “Uh-huh. Best birthday ever.” Bret’s face pops into my head. I said the exact same thing to him last night. Was that really less than twenty-four hours ago?
    Michael points at his watch. “And it’s only ten o’clock. Whaddya say we make this an unsurpassable standard of birthday excellence?”
    “Does that involve more drinking?” Ben asks.
    “Most definitely,” Michael says, nodding. “Significantly more drinking. And quite possibly some dancing.”
    “Some” dancing is a vast understatement. Turns out, Ben knows a guy who knows a guy who’s the bouncer at Alchemy, a townie club east of campus (how the guy from New York has the hookup in New Haven, I have no idea). It’s old-school hip-hop night, and the cramped