Omar preferred computers back when they were imagined as motorcycle analogues: dangerous and powerful things to ride, built for experts, best when skirting laws. Hackers in black or white helmets, gunning off into cyberspace with sunglasses gleaming. You had to have sunglasses; they reflected the monitor so nicely.
Now mirrorshades are out of style, and computers are used to play songs you don’t like on MySpace. Omar named his club the Gentleman Loser and nobody got it. There’s a decent crowd most nights, but he can’t bring himself to strap on a keyboard and mingle. His leather jacket’s too hot anyway.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
Holly is so giddy from the night that she actually takes Mr. Porn Resort’s card and slips it down the front of her dress. Everyone’s drifting over to watch an epileptic ball descend a pole, so she takes Rose and Roger each by a hand and leads them out to the car.
The streets are empty silence and the moon’s just starting to wane. The clock in the dash says 12:02. Holly leads them again, up the steps to her apartment, where frost has paislied the sliding doors.
Holly kisses Roger. Holly kisses Rose.
Rose kisses Roger.
“Happy new,” Holly says.