The bride said the wine was paid for so we might as well stay—me and Trevor and Juan, who’d driven me up from the city, and a man with no jacket whose name I’d heard as Rich. We thudded into the deep carpet lobby, more lounge than lobby, the bride said, clasping her hands behind the groom’s neck, bouncing in his arms, her shoes slapping unsteady time into the air. Rich set four bottles on a small table. Two armchairs and a small sofa were drawn up. Outside, the DJ was walking his speakers to his car and snow was blowing through the lights and the pines.
“See?” the bride said. “There’s no going anywhere now.”
“It’s good wine,” Trevor said.
“Why not,” I said.