“This was last night?”
“No,” says Cal, “two nights ago.”
“She was cute?” asks Sean.
“She was pretty cute,” Cal says, reaching across a group of gym-rat, hard body, greek row blondes with their domestic brewed, board short boyfriends to grab a waterbottle out of the cooler beside the counter, “like a kind of mousy cute.”
“In a bad way?” Sean asks from behind him in line.
“No,” Cal pulls his wallet from his back pants pocket, “still cute.”
The group of post-pledged, Kappa PHI-whatevers laugh loudly to themselves in the background from their flipflops, jean skirts, fitted tees, china white teeth and burnt-mud bronzed faces.
