For an hour, we stood in our corner and we sipped on our drinks, holding them loosely. We slid our fingers down the ice-cold glasses, brushing away the sweat that collected on the smooth sides, and whispered our plan. The two-man band was strumming their guitars, hedged into the opposite corner by their microphones and wires and knee-high speakers.
Watching them, we were sure they couldn’t know our favorite song. We elbowed each other, passing the dare down the table, waiting for someone to have the guts to ask.
Christie escaped our corner first, and passed the secret plan to the band. Then we all burst out from behind the table.
Dancing and singing, and losing our voices in the song, we wondered what had been so impassible in asking for something so small. Yet, grinning at each other and belting every word, it still felt fantastically large.