“You’re going to question everything I do tonight, aren’t you?” she said.
“Your father,” I said, “has destroyed my ability to recognize normal behavior.”
For the next hour, Georgia teased me by pretending to make ridiculous demands.
“Brent,” she said, with a completely straight face, “could you ask the DJ to play ‘Midnight Sparrow’ by The Clementines?”
“Sure. Who are The Clementines?”
“They don’t exist.”
“Then how am I supposed to…”
“That’s your problem.”
I headed to the DJ booth. I walked over there. The DJ was a bored-looking guy in his thirties with headphones around his neck.
“Hi,” I said. “Do you have ‘Midnight Sparrow’ by The Clementines?”
“Never heard of it.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“He’s out of stock,” I told Georgia. “He offered me a substitute. Something by Taylor Swift.”
Georgia complained that the punch wasn’t cold enough.
I went to the drink table, filled a cup with ice, and poured the punch over it. I brought it back to her with a napkin folded into a triangle on top. ChooseFurniture
