"Sounds interesting," Alan said. "Do you have any of it I could listen to? A CD or some MP3s?" "Oh, *that's* not how you listen to this stuff," Natalie said. "You have to go to a club and *dance*." "Really?" Alan said. "Do I have to take ecstasy, or is that optional?" "It's mandatory," Mimi said, the first words she'd spoken to him all week. "Great fistfuls of E, and then you have to consume two pounds of candy necklaces at an after-hours orgy." "Not really," Natalie said, *sotto voce*. "But you *do* have to dance. You should go with, uh, Mimi, to the club. DJ None Of Your Fucking Business is *amazing*." "I don't think Mimi wants company," Alan said. "What makes you say that?" Mimi said, making a dare of it with hipshot body language. "Get changed and we'll go together. You'll have to pay to get in, though." Link and Natalie exchanged a raised eyebrow, but Alan was already headed for his place, fumbling for his keys. He bounded up the stairs, swiped a washcloth over his face, threw on a pair of old cargo pants and a faded Steel Pole Bathtub T-shirt he'd bought from a head-shop one day because he liked the words' incongruity, though he'd never heard the band, added a faded jean jacket and a pair of high-tech sneakers, grabbed his phone, and bounded back down the stairs. He was convinced that Mimi would be long gone by the time he got back out front, but she was still there, the stripes in her stockings glowing in the slanting light. "Retro chic," she said, and laughed nastily. Natalie gave him a thumbs up and a smile that Alan uncharitably took for a simper, and felt guilty about it immediately afterward. He returned the thumbs up and then took off after Mimi, who'd already started down Augusta, headed for Queen Street. "What's the cover charge?" he said, once he'd caught up. "Twenty bucks," she said. "It's an all-ages show, so they won't be selling a lot of booze, so there's a high cover." "How's the play coming?" "Fuck off about the play, okay?" she said, and spat on the sidewalk. "All right, then," he said. "I'm going to start writing my story tomorrow," he said. "Your story, huh?" "Yup." "What's that for?" "What do you mean?" he asked playfully. "Why are you writing a story?" "Well, I have to! I've completely redone the house, built that soundwall -- it'd be a shame not to write the story now." "You're writing a story about your house?" "No, *in* my house. I haven't decided what the story's about yet. That'll be job one tomorrow." "You did all that work to have a place to write? Man, I thought *I* was into procrastination." He chuckled self-deprecatingly. "I guess you could look at it that way. I just wanted to have a nice, creative environment to work in. The story's important to me, is all." "What are you going to do with it once you're done? There aren't a whole lot of places that publish short stories these days, you know."